


'Cause I Know That It's Delicate

by darkofthemorning



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Bartender!Scott, Bartenders, Businesswoman!Tessa, Crimes & Criminals, Drinking, F/M, Fashion & Couture, Fights, Hockey, Ice Skating, Instant Connections, Lies, Secret Identity, Secret Past, Secrets, Small Towns, Song: Delicate (Taylor Swift), Starting Over, White Collar Crime, coach!scott
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2019-09-28 17:10:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17187014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkofthemorning/pseuds/darkofthemorning
Summary: Life is delicate and strange, and you never know what forces can intercept at any moment to commence your downfall, or simply change the way it plays out.But it ain't always for the best.Or: the bartender Scott and former-fashion-icon Tessa AU literally no one asked for





	1. This ain't for the best...

Huddled together under the covers in her small, white bedroom, she can’t help but notice the way the temperature has begun to dip with the progression of the night. Even the countless blankets weighing them down are no match for the harsh Canadian winter, nor her failing heating system, which she makes a mental note to notify maintenance of in the morning. Though this misfortune has turned her apartment into a sub-zero zone, he insisted he wanted to stay the night at her place regardless.

She didn't argue.

The room is painted dark by the moonless night, but they can see each other as though it were showered in the rays of the midday sun. His head on her shoulder, he knows her usually fierce green eyes are softened as she watches him, her fingers performing a delicate dance through his hair. He feels her shift under him every so often, a tell-tale sign that she’s trying to get comfortable for sleep. He’s never met someone who moved around so much in their sleep, but her restlessness could never prevent him from lying with her after a long day, body aching with fatigue. He knows that although she is physically present, her busy mind is elsewhere, as it always is: thinking about work, her parents, what she will wear tomorrow, how many hours of sleep she will get if she falls asleep at this precise second.

She knows that the corner of his lips are turned up ever so slightly, his hazel eyes following the careful paths he’s tracing in the dips of her toned torso. Every so often, she can feel his head turn towards her, and she knows he’s staring at her, taking her in. And when he isn’t looking at her, when his focus once again returns to outlining the features of the beautiful woman under him, she knows he is still thinking of her, of everything that has happened in their lives in order to lead up to this exact moment, a moment he would never trade for the world. As he shivers, she seems to pull him closer to her just a beat before as if anticipating it.

It’s a strange thing they have developed, the ability to know exactly what the other is thinking or feeling or the expression on their face without even needing to see them. They only met a year ago, but it feels as though they’ve known each other their whole lives. The kind of connection they have isn’t one that comes around often; if you saw them together, you would think they have been lovers for years, with the way they know each other like no one else. It's the kind of relatinship that so many crave, yet it always seems to hover just out of reach. One year is not nearly enough time to understand someone as deeply as they do each other. How on Earth were they able to create the strongest bond they’ve ever had in that single year? The answer is far too complex for anyone, even them, to understand. That should have been the first red flag.

 

* * *

 

“You know,” she says, drawing abstract shapes on his shoulders, “If anyone would have told me 10 years ago that I would be here, in this very moment with you, I don’t know if I would have laughed or cried.”

She laughs at her statement, a playful giggle that makes his heart melt and shatter simultaneously.

“Hey now,” he warns, “That was totally unnecessary. You hurt my feelings a little there.” He sits up, turning towards her with a childish pout and crossed arms.

“What?” She says innocently, a smile playing at the corner of her lips as she reaches her arms out, motioning for him to lie back down with her. “I don’t see what the problem is.”

He reconnects his temple to her chest, in the spot he knows he can clearly hear the rhythm of her beating heart.

“I’m not talking to you anymore.”

His statement only sends her into a fit of laughter. He can be so childish sometimes, and you’d never know it if you simply approached him on the street. Though he is a well-respected coach with a professional demeanour, the child in him never fails to come out on occasion, most often in front of her. It amazes her how much he can change in different situations, and she knows that she’s grateful to be so close to him that she knows every side of him, both the good and bad.

He loves the sound of her laugh, the one he’s grown used to over the last year. But not that forced, light giggle, the one he knows she curated specifically for the nosy media reporters who once pried at the deepest corners of her life. He knows her laugh isn’t one of those generic, factory-produced laughs that arise when you speak with someone you don’t know well. It isn’t one that makes you smile uncomfortably, so obviously fake in a way just to make you feel as though you’re entertaining, even when you’re not. It isn’t one that makes you jump, so loud and outrageous that your cheeks flush with embarrassment when you’re sitting in a quiet café. No, her laugh is nothing like these.

Her laugh sounds like home. It sounds like the way his mother used to hold him by the fireplace as a child as he drifted off to sleep, like the first sip of peppermint hot cocoa after a cold day at the rink, like smiles exchanged between family at the dinner table.

With his head on her chest, he can feel the way it rises and falls as she gasps for air, the way that beautiful sound reverbrates throughout her body. It’s so contagious; even though she just clearly insulted him, he can’t help but laugh too.

Eventually, she collects herself, and the atmosphere reclaims its silence. It’s not an awkward silence, but an inviting one. A comfortable silence you can only feel with those closest to you. Nothing needs to be said, because it can all be felt.

He continues dragging his finger around her belly button, his opposite arm wrapped around her, and she can feel her eyes growing heavy as she listens to the song his breathing creates against the quiet backdrop of the night. She holds him closer to her, and in this moment, he feels at peace.

But just as quickly this moment of tranquility came, it vanishes, replaced with an inexplicable feeling inside him. One that was nowhere near as calming.

“What do you think you would be doing right now if you never met me?” he says abruptly, barely audible. If anyone else were beside him, they would not have heard him. But she, oh of course she heard it.

“Honestly, a life here," she says so softly, holding her hand out, waving it delicately between them, "Without you, is a life I don’t really want to think about.”

He laughs then, a sad noise that makes her rethink her answer, but no words follow her remark. He continues to circle around her belly button, and she moves her small fingers to lightly trail along his jawbone, down his neck, across his collarbone, and back up to rest on his cheek.

“You know I love you, right?” She tells him, though she feels it’s more to convince than remind.

“Of course,” he croaks, a slight crack in his voice coming like a punch to her throat. She knows that he is one to wear his heart on his sleeve, but she’s never seen this broken side of him before, and she begins to question if she truly knows him as well as she has brought herself to believe. After a quiet sniffle escapes the man lying on her chest, she immediately knows that something is wrong, and she wants nothing more than to speak, to reassure him everything's alright, but it's as though her mouth has been clamped shut. Minutes of wailing sirens pass by in her head, and once the spell has been lifted, her voice is a grainy whisper as she calls out to him.

“Scott?” she questions. When no response comes, she tries again.

“Hey, Scott?”

But instead of his voice, she is greeted by a heavy silence that threatens to crush her under its mass, and the faint snores of a man she knows she doesn’t deserve.


	2. My reputation's never been worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look into the dark pasts of each half of a greater whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told myself to wait a week before posting another chapter but I'm also super impatient and, like I said, extremely inconsistent. Happy end-of-2018!

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

 

_The second hand on the clock mounted on the wall above her is awfully loud._

 

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

 

_The lights are too bright, the people around her merely a haze of  unidentfyable colours. The cameras, and eyes of everyone in the courtroom, are all positioned on her, watching her every move._

 

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

 

_It feels like she’s been sitting here for years, a delicate pendulum swinging from the prosecution yelling unfathomable questions to her stuttering out laughable answers._

 

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

 

_She looks around. Her mother, questioning the opposition, turns and gives her a sad smile so quick she is unsure if she imagined it. By the time she is able to process it, her mother has already made her way back to the podium, back towards the man sitting there._

 

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

 

_It’s so hot. Too hot. The migraine is slowly drilling its way into her skull, the one that has been dancing its way into her head quite often lately. Is she sweating? She cannot look bad in front of these cameras. She gives her forehead a quick wipe._

 

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

 

_She may not have been listening before, but she cannot ignore the words which boom from the judge’s mouth after what feels like days of silence._

 

_Tick._

 

_“The jury has reached a unanimous verdict.”_

 

_Tick._

 

_“The defendant has been found guilty.”_

 

_Tick._

 

Waking with a start, she quickly sits up in her bed.

She looks over at the clock, her heart racing. _3:26 AM_ screams back at her in big, red lettering, reflecting slightly off the glossy, chipped nightstand.

Sighing, she wipes the salty water that has accumulated in the inner corners of her eyes and brings her face to the palms of her hands. She takes deep breaths, exactly how her psychologist taught her just months ago when the dreams and panic attacks first began.

Tessa Virtue. A name that once dripped like liquid gold from the mouths of the biggest names in the design industry was now one equated to poison.

Once one of the most recognizable and successful designers of the 21st century, a role model to both the young and old, with houses in almost every fashion capital the world, Tessa is now a 29-year-old woman who lives in a shitty apartment in a nowhere town, who had to deactivate all social medias to avoid the floods of threats, and who had to change her name and dye her hair so she wouldn’t be recognized. Dressing up to go out is a rigorous routine she dreads from the moment her alarm sounds: styling her freshly bleached blonde hair, caking her face in makeup and pulling clothes onto her body she never would have worn before. There isn’t a day that passes where she doesn’t feel like a complete fucking failure and disgrace to her family, the guilt lodged in her throat whenever she dares to speak.

From age 13, Tessa lived and breathed fashion, researching the top designers in the world and spitting out facts about any single one of them, keeping up with the current trends, making her own sketches, and practicing her model walk in front of the full-length mirror that leaned against the pink wall of her bedroom. At age 15, she carefully pieced together a 36-slide PowerPoint on why her parents should let her begin modelling, and when that didn’t convince them, she made more. That is one thing about Tessa: when she wants something, she goes through whatever it takes to get it—that’s what made her such a good businesswoman. After the third slideshow, Kate Virtue finally gave in and watched as her daughter painstakingly organized portfolios to send to agencies.

It was no surprise that Tessa received offers from all of the agencies she applied to. She has always been rather beautiful; true, genuine beauty radiated not only from her face but her personality as well. She was the smartest student in her class, achieving honour roll every single year and appointed valedictorian of her elementary and high school graduating classes. Everyone wanted their children to be Tessa; she wasn’t one of those snobby girls who seemed to have _everything_. She was an authentic girl who took the time to get to know everyone. She had an obvious spark in her that everyone knew would take her places.

In the beginning of her modelling career, it was tough. Tessa went in with her guard built up, as she knew how cruel the industry could be. But that wall wasn’t always strong enough. At only age 16, she was still young and vulnerable to the nefarious ways of companies and the unrealistically curated moulds that were oh so difficult to fit into. There were many successes, but beneath those triumphs were tears and heartbreaks and shatters of confidence, sleepless nights and skipped meals and strained relationships. But eventually, Tessa found herself navigating the job with ease. She landed numerous shoots with big name companies and soared to the top of the industry by her 22nd birthday. She became the face of brands like Adidas and Coach, and after she expressed her desire to design her own clothing, she fell into the arms of just the right people to make that happen.

By age 24, the Tessa Virtue line was launched, quickly accelerating to become one of the top clothing brands in the world. Tessa’s clothing appeared various high-profile fashion shows, including New York Fashion Week for four years in a row. The biggest celebrities wore her pieces, and she was considered nothing short of an icon. Tessa was a busy woman, and when she wasn’t in her office or designing, she was running from interview to interview, from phone line to phone line, making sure that everything was just perfect. But at some point, success became Tessa’s number one priority, and she soon began abandoning all other morals she once held so closely to her heart: genuineness, truthfulness, and happiness.

Tessa was only 27 when she was at the top of the game, becoming more and more successful every night. No one knew how she did it, but Tessa did. It was just a simple a matter of changing a couple numbers in the accounting books every so often, or charging just a little more than she should have, or having sales that weren’t really sales, or adding a detail from a fellow designer to her own designs to boost the success of her own products. They were small things, but like most lies do, they added up. Tessa found herself caught in a web of scams, an unhealthy drive for success blinding her from warnings from her family and friends.

If only she would have listened.

Just months after she turned 28-years-old, Tessa was faced with a lawsuit that threatened to destroy her career and reputation: fraud and copyright infringement. If found guilty, it would turn her whole business bankrupt. So, Tessa did all she could to hide any evidence of her little secrets, especially from her mother, who promised to be her lawyer and prove her innocence in the various court dates scattered throughout the first weeks of March of 2018. But unfortunately, the evidence was not as well hidden as Tessa thought. And just like that, everything was gone. Tessa lost all of her sponsorships and endorsements, her clothing was pulled from all stores, how own stores were shut down, and she found herself bankrupt, just in time for her 29th birthday. Her reputation had been diminished to nothing; she was no longer respected, nor liked among the public, and labelled as a fraud. Everyone abandoned her, and she will never forget the disappointment in her mother’s eyes when Tessa admitted after the verdict that she _was_ a fraud. She knew the damage she caused was too severe to repair: the damage to the industry, to her fans, to her friends, but most of all, to her family. So, Tessa did the only thing she could do: sell whatever was left of her possessions, move into a small and cheap rental apartment in a faraway town, change her name, and start over, all accomplished by the start of April.

Tessa lifts her head from her hands and looks at the clock again. _4:02 AM_ , the angry clock reads. Her eyes are heavy, but even as she slowly lays herself back down on the old, stiff mattress, she can’t bring herself to sleep.

 _Happy fucking birthday to me_ , she thinks to herself. She closes her eyes, but sleep never comes.

 

* * *

 

_“Scott, are you sure you’re okay to play today?”_

 

_“I’m fine. Would you stop asking me that? I’m fine. How many times do I need to tell you?”_

 

 _“I just wanted to_ — _”_

 

 _“I’m_ fine _,” he snaps._

 

_The rest of the car ride to the rink is silent, as his mother clutches the steering wheel so tight, her knuckles are white. He stares out the window, a small fire of rage beginning to crackle with the slightest hint of a flame._

 

_As he walks to the dressing room, he ignores the cheers coming from his teammates and dodges the back pats and fist bumps being thrown in his direction._

 

_He’s not in the mood._

 

_His peripheral vision glows a vibrant red as he puts on his gear and laces his skates so quickly that his hands are a mere blur._

 

_He probably shouldn’t be playing. God, he knows he’s going to fuck something up as soon as he goes out on the ice. But there’s a magnet pulling him to the rink, past everyone chanting his name, out to center ice, where he lowers his stick, looking at the boy across from him through slitted eyes, ready for the puck to drop._

 

_Senior year hasn’t been the kindest to him, and the troubles he has faced these last twelve months have only added to the ever-burning rage within him. The doctors he’s been seeing since freshman year haven’t done shit for him. Or maybe he just doesn’t want their fucking pity. He can help himself._

 

_As the game progresses, the fire within him seems to ignite and spread faster than he can keep up with. Everything he sees is red, and his body suddenly goes into autopilot._

 

_The next thing he remembers is being dragged off the ice, medical services crowding around an unconscious referee and a player of the opposite team covered in blood, his left leg twisted in an unnatural manner. People are screaming and crying and everything is chaos, and he immediately knows._

 

_This was his doing._

 

_But he feels nothing, like usual. He feels no guilt, no sadness, not even angry anymore._

 

_He just feels...empty._

 

_There are two police officers waiting for him after he passes through the glass doors separating the rink from the corridor, the grip around his arms loosening so suddenly he nearly falls over._

 

_The officers attempt burn holes into him with their eyes, but he’s used to this by now. This isn’t the first time he’s seen them. He’s used to playing this game._

 

_“Long time no see,” says the tall, bulkier officer. “Come with us.”_

 

_He looks over his shoulder, at all of the chaos he caused in the rink, before removing his skates and following the officer out of the building. He knows that this time, he won’t be let go as easily. This time, it’s bad. This time, the consequences will be greater._

 

_And he thinks it might be for the best._

 

“Scott?”

 

He quickly comes back to reality, shaking his head and plastering a smile on his face.

“Scott, you good to finish up?”

“Yeah, man. Of course.”

“Thanks buddy. Glad I can always count on you. You’re working tomorrow night, right?”

“When am I _not_ working, Charlie?”

The two men laugh, and Charlie gives Scott a pat on the back before grabbing his bag and weaving through the too-close tables to the exit of the bar.

Scott sighs, staring out across the empty space. His eyes catch the time flashing across a sporty clock: _3:26 AM_ . _White’s_ was the only bar open late in town—until 3 AM. After Scott got the job, he had to adjust to the late nights, usually sleeping for a few hours in the early morning before heading to his other job as a youth rep hockey coach Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays at the local rink. He had been coaching two teams since he was 25, but picked up the bartending gig at 28 to make some extra money to send to his parents, because that’s the least he could do for them after what he did. They don’t know where he is, or what he’s doing, and those weekly envelopes filled with all his tip money arriving in their mailbox are the only proof that their son was still alive and well.

Scott loves his teams, and his boys reciprocate the feeling. He has to admit, they're pretty good, and they are quick learners who are on their way to reaching their full potential. Travelling to tournaments and games with them, they remind him of the way he was as a kid. Charming, funny smart-asses with a competitive edge that only pushes them to better themselves and the team. To say he's proud of them is an understatement. But if there is one thing that Scott wants to do, it’s make sure that none of these boys turn out like him, that none of the boys make the same mistakes he did, thinking they can get through their troubles on their own.

His schedule is always packed, leaving barely enough time to socialize or make friends or even date for that matter. But, that’s just the way Scott likes it. He doesn’t like to make connections with people, because the less people who come into his life, the less people he can hurt again.

He’s usually alone at this point, a time he looks forward to every night. It leaves him time to reflect as he wipes down the tables and rearranges the glasses and bottles just so. He can’t believe there was a time in his life when he wasn’t so calm, where if just one thing was out of place he’d probably destroy the place. Scott shakes his head at the thought, ashamed of his past self.

Since he was just 2 years old and his parents first put him in lessons, it was obvious Scott was destined to a life on skates. At age 4, Scott was playing hockey for the London youth team, and was already showing so much potential despite being the smallest on the team. His size, in a way, was quite the advantage, as it was easy for him to weave through players who underestimated him. From those moments, hockey became Scott’s entire life, his weekends consisting of tournaments across Ontario, then Canada, then North America into his teenage years. There wasn’t room for much else in his life, though he did enjoy going out to party with his teammates and laughing at all of the girls who swooned after him.

He knew the effect he had on girls, and there wasn’t a single one in Ilderton that _didn’t_ want to be his, staring as he walked by. His handsomeness combined with his incredible talent made him popular not only among his peers but also hockey scouts. By ninth grade, Scott had his sights set on the NHL, and everyone knew it. He would to anything, _anything_ to get there. He couldn’t help it; he had a competitive edge, but the edge was a little sharper than Scott would ever realize. Scott began body checking a little harder on the ice. His words cut a little deeper in the hallways. Fights became physical, a transition from the usual, harmless teasing. Things upset him much more quickly than they used to, and even the smallest comment triggered a raging reflex within him. Scott’s grades simultaneously began to decline as he lost interest in his schoolwork and ultimately began to skip school. Hockey was the only thing on his mind, and anything—or anyone—who got in the way of his goals were tossed aside like garbage.

Scott’s parents began to worry for their son, this new side of him scaring them. They tried to talk to him about it, but this only irritated him more. Even as they sent him to countless therapists who had him on medication for a while, nothing seemed to help in the long run. It was hard for them to watch their son slowly destroy himself and other people around him. Not many knew about Scott’s anger problem, and the Moirs made sure it stayed that way.

The rage within scott dwindled significantly in the summer of senior year when Scott got his first real girlfriend. But in the fall, that fire only ignited once again with the beginning of the hockey season. Scott was as on edge as ever, and he knew this was _his_ year, the year he would be noticed and scouted and drafted. His grades improved. Scott learned how to compose himself and make himself look good in front of all the important people. His image was restored, or at least, that’s how it seemed. But on the inside, Scott knew it was only a matter of time before he broke down again and lashed out. There was a pressure building, ready to combust at any given moment.

It was at one of his tournaments just after his 17th birthday when the bomb within Scott finally went off. He woke up that morning and knew that something bad was going to happen that day, but he still got dressed, loaded the car with his equipment, grabbed a protein shake from the fridge, sat in the passenger seat and looked out the window to keep himself from yelling. As Alma Moir took the driver’s seat, she knew something was off, but Scott insisted he was fine. She could see that the rage that she tried so hard to diminish was coming back, but there was nothing she could do except watch it all unfold, and nothing broke her heart as agonizingly as this. Scott had been put on a waiting list for another therapist, and the medication hadn’t been working, so Alma’s sleepless nights spent researching all of the ways to help her son was the most she could do.

Everything that happened that day was a collection of things Scott had been told over the years. He doesn’t remember a single thing, except the feeling that he wasn’t himself. He ignored everyone and everything, a permanent furrow between his brows. After getting on the ice and playing the first period, Scott received a penalty, which set him off. He fought the referee, punching him into unconsciousness, a concussion resulting from the force of his hitting the ice. Players from both teams rushed over to calm Scott down, and though one player with good intentions got in front of Scott, if there’s one thing you shouldn’t do, it’s interfere with him during his episodes unless you’re trained to do so. Scott punched that player too, and once he fell to the ground, began to hit him with his stick. There was blood everywhere, the poor boy’s nose broken from Scott’s blows, his wrist fractured and leg mangled from the way he fell, a large gash torn through the player’s jersey and into his arm. Scott was dragged from the ice, still screaming and kicking like a child.

In the stands, Alma Moir was mortified. Chaos had begun, people shouting at the ice and at her, people crying, people throwing things, it was too much. She ran out of the arena into the safety of her car, and cried. And cried. And cried. Why did she continue to drive her son to his tournament even when she knew something was off?

The Moirs were faced with a huge lawsuit, one that tainted the family name and put them into more debt than they could imagine. Scott was lucky he wasn’t sent to jail, and he’s lucky that his case wasn’t broadcast for all the world to see. Somehow, the incident really only stayed within Ilderton and the surrounding towns, with some people in other parts of the province knowing only because they heard from a friend who heard from a friend who knew what happened. Suddenly everyone turned against the Moirs, and Scott immediately began to realize the severity of his actions. He knew it was over for him, that he would never be able to amount to much after this. So, Scott only had one choice: at age 17, halfway through senior year of high school, with just a backpack of a few clothes, a fake ID saying he was 19, and all of the money from his savings account, he got on a bus and set off, as far from the trouble he caused as possible, far from all he has ever known, ready to build a new life where the name Scott Moir wasn’t known. He was seen as a monster, and he knew they were all right. He left a note, promising his parents that once he got a job he would send money to the to help them pay off the charges. He knew the hurt and pain he caused, and he didn’t think he deserved to be a Moir anymore; he didn’t deserve their love. Hell, he didn’t deserve anyone’s love.

But that’s the problem with Scott. Rather than face his problems, he runs away from them.

Scott snaps out of his daze, glancing over at the clock once again. _4:02 AM_ the clock reads.

“Shit,” he mutters to himself, as he grabs his things and takes one last look around the bar before turning off all of the lights and locking up. His eyes are heavy as he gets into his piece-of-junk car, the shrieks of the failing engine the only sound filling the air as he sets off into the cool night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now you know a bit of a backstory for both Tessa and Scott in this wonderful AU, and it will explain why they behave the way they do in future chapters. Up next, we continue with Tessa's birthday and what both her and Scott are up to.


	3. Dive bar on the east side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May 17th. An ordinary day in the year for one, but more sacred for another. Despite this difference, they will ultimately spend the day the same: running late to the jobs they hate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just sort of a filler chapter, but I feel like it's necessary for the storyline. It took me so long to write and I'm not even sure if I'm completely satisfied with it, so please bear with me :(
> 
> I promise there'll be more interesting things to come.

Tessa looks over at the clock again as if she hadn’t been glancing its way ten times per hour. _5:53 AM_ , only seven minutes before her alarm was set to sound. She lets out a long and exaggerated groan, turning over and groaning even louder into her pillow. At this point, she might as well get up and ready for the day, despite her protesting body.

The routine usually goes as follows: wake up at six, take a quick shower, get dressed, do her makeup, burn a bagel and nearly set off the smoke alarm, make a coffee, drop something on the way out to the parking lot, and drive her beat-up car to her boring desk job at a paper distribution company. She hates it more than anything, and the pay is shitty, but it was the only place that called her back when she first sent out countless resumes after moving here. Starting over also meant having absolutely no work experience or references, two of the most crucial components of a resume, and she knows this was the reason she got no calls back. And she was genuinely surprised when she did get a call back and a job offer from this company despite her apparent lack of experience. But she needed the money so bad, so she dragged herself there every weekday morning at 8, usually leaving late in the evening, around 5 or 6 PM.

Tessa’s apartment isn’t the most glamourous thing; a one bedroom, one bathroom shack would be a better way to describe it. The bedroom only had enough room for a double bed and a dresser, and the bathroom was essentially a closet with a toilet, bathtub and sink awkwardly arranged like a puzzle with pieces that doesn’t quite fit together. Luckily, to Tessa’s relief, the walls were white and not some crazy neon colour or plastered with patterned wallpaper. It was easy to decorate this way and make the small space feel as close to home as possible.

Interior decorating is one of Tessa’s not-so-secret passions, and she loved making spaces her own. From her previous office to her old house, to this new place she called home, every place had the Tessa Touch, decorated in exactly the same timeless style: a mix between elegant, classy, and modern.

The kitchen is rather small, not that Tessa minds. She had never been a huge cook, and she usually ordered in or bought pre-packaged meals from the grocery store to get her by. Sometimes her concoctions turn out alright when she does try to whip something up, but usually she only set off the smoke detectors or gives herself food poisoning. It was progress though, she remembers, from when everything was merely handed to her on a silver platter.

When Tessa draws back the curtains from her bedroom window, she immediately hates what she sees: rain. Heavy rain. She sighs, letting the curtains fall back into place as she drags herself into the bathroom. Rain and Tessa Virtue are two things that don’t quite mix, especially when hair and makeup is involved. After showering, she throws her long, blonde hair into a bun on top of her head, and then examines herself in the mirror. It doesn't really suit her all that well, this lightened gold colour. It clashes with her piercing green eyes and freckles, accessories that looked much nicer with her once-auburn locks. Now, they seem out of place.

She carefully applies her makeup, finishing off with her favourite pink lipstick. She loves the colour because it offsets the dissonance between her facial features and hair, and because she has used the same colour since she was a teenager. It was part of her now, and it reminded her of home. Though she knew, even on this day, she wouldn’t receive any calls or texts from her family and friends back home, much similar to the way it’s been the last month.

Tessa sighs, pulling on a pair of black wide-leg trousers and simple black pumps before navigating a navy-blue blouse over her head as to not ruin her hair or makeup.

 _Damn,_ she thinks. _I really should have went for a button up._

After some struggling and a few minutes of rubbing off the foundation that transferred to the blouse collar, Tessa quickly whips up a cup of coffee, grabs a small apple from the fridge and her bag, and heads out the door. She’s early today, er, _earlier_ than usual. She's still running late, but not as late as usual, so she doesn't run out her door, and she manages to not drop anything on her way out, which sets her to be even more early than usual. And she doesn't speed out of her driveway at double the speed limit, much like she did nearly everyday.

More just like 1.5 times the speed limit.

She arrives at work in a semi-decent mood, but she knows she’d be much happier if she were designing clothing.

With every step she takes towards the doors, Tessa feels her mood depleting. And with the rise of the elevator to the third floor where the offices were located, all she can think about is what she was doing at this time last year: presenting her birthday collection at a private show in Rome. Tessa laughs to herself; oh, what she would do to go back to that time.

When she steps off of the dingy elevator, she is greeted with the same sad, gray walls and furious keyboard tapping as usual. If this place needs anything, it’s a nice pop of colour.

She walks to her desk in the back corner, and is surprised to see a few pink helium balloons tied to a floor weight beside it, a small gift with a card attached resting in front of the phone.

“ _Happy Birthday Jordan!_ ” the nearly perfect handwriting reads across the envelope.

Even after a month and a half, Tessa still finds it strange to see _Jordan_ spoken or written somewhere and it being to acknowledge _her_. Jordan McCormick, her new full name, the one she picked out the morning of her last court date, because she knew even before it began that it was all about to be over for her. Jordan, for her older sister, the biggest role model in her life, and McCormick, one of Tessa’s middle names, because she still wanted a little piece of herself when she started over; she didn’t want to lose herself completely, like she has in every other aspect of her life.

This birthday wish from her co-workers is the only one she receives that day.

Despite the fact that the card is signed from everyone in the office, no one makes an effort to acknowledge Tessa at all during her shift. But that's nothing out of the ordinary; everyone usually kept to themselves anyway, and Tessa liked it that way.

8 agonizingly long hours later, just after 5 PM, Tessa is beyond relieved to pack up her things and leave the office. However, she finds that for the first time in her whole life, she has nowhere to go, no one to turn to on her birthday.

Growing up, the Virtues always made birthdays a huge deal. For every one of their children’s birthdays, Kate and Jim made sure that they got everything they wanted, or at least, what they knew would be safe. It was a honour to be invited to a Virtue party, and those who were invited time and time again knew they were special. The events were lavish with countless guests, which the children knew just meant more presents.

Tessa smiles at the memories, the one most vividly in her mind of her ninth birthday. Her parents rented different rides and attractions to be pitched in their large backyard, turning it into a small-scale carnival. Tessa remembers how much she begged to have a carnival-themed party, but didn’t actually think her parents would follow through.

But they did, time and time again.

As she gets into the driver's seat of her car, tears threaten to escape her eyes—she’d do absolutely anything to have the support of her parents back.

But contacting them would mean facing the past she’s been trying to run from, and it would completely demolish the identity she has so carefully curated for herself these last couple months. Once Tessa builds her guard, she makes sure that nothing can destroy it.

Not even the thought of her parents.

So, Tessa resists the urge to type in that oh so familiar phone number into her iPhone, instead driving home with the radio off and in complete silence.

By the time she gets home, takes a shower, and picks around at a frozen dinner she absent-mindedly pulled from the shelves of a nearby Loblaws, it’s well after 7 PM. With four hours left of the day, Tessa contemplates whether it would be safer to sit at home and watch the Jeopardy marathon currently on the TV in the fuzzy koala-printed pyjamas she’s currently wearing or go out and try to have some fun, though she would definitely have to change, right? She groans, internally fighting with herself for what seems like ages before grabbing her phone, Googling the nearest bar to where she is, on the east side of town, and calling a cab to bring her there.

 

* * *

 

A harsh beeping in the dim room wakes Scott with a start, his eyes flying open as he kicks around under the sheets for a few seconds trying to find his phone.

He always tells himself to stop sleeping with his phone on the bed, but he never seems to follow through.

He finally finds his phone on the _floor_ , a few feet away from the footboard, and the alarm snoozes itself before he can even push the button. He looks at the time—11:01 AM—before throwing the device back onto his bed and heading to the shower.

He stops on the way to peer out the window, groaning dramatically when he's only greeted with streaks of water on the glass and loud splashes as the rain hits the pavement below. Scott likes the rain, as long as he doesn't need to go out in it. But with a day like today, the rain is his worst enemy.

As the warm water hits Scott's back, he plans out his day in his head: hit the gym, come back to his apartment to sign his team up for a few final games before the end of the season before heading to the rink at 4 for a short two-hour practice, then grab a pre-made meal from the nearest grocery store before racing over to the bar for his too-long closing shift at 7 AM.

5 days a week, Scott’s day begins at the gym, a place where he could channel his inner frustrations and stress and anger into energy to push him through the extremely tough workouts. He enjoys working out, even more the way his dedicated routine has sculpted his body into one of the ones he envied once upon a time. He found it all cathartic in a way, and he always left the facility feeling better than he had when we first walked in. But the rush that Scott got while surrounded by the equipment sometimes made him push himself too hard, though he never cared.

Scott suffered a few injuries as a result of his intense drive, and without being able to work out while he healed, his emotions threatened to drown him. There were times Scott almost gave into his impulses, but just a quick glance at the small frame that held a battered photo of his parents, taken just before he left them, grounded him back into reality and reminded him of the reasons why he was even standing in this shit apartment in the first place.

After leaving home, being alone forced Scott to face his demons head-on, even though he wasn’t ready to. And being merely a young adult, he didn’t know any better than to release his feelings through what he loved most: sport. He took up some boxing classes, and found himself in the local gym almost daily. On the plus side, he remembers, he gained a lot of muscle that first year. He was a pretty skinny kid, he had to admit. He’s come a long way, both physically and mentally, and he feels proud of that.

But he isn’t quite sure if he’s completely okay again, if his demons are truly gone.

Steam escapes into the hallway as Scott makes his way to the kitchen to grab an apple and a protein bar, quickly glancing at the clock on the microwave—11:45 AM—and noting how on-time he is, something he’s usually extremely bad at. He does a little quirky dance as he twirls into the TV room to pick up his Nike workout bag, throwing it over his shoulder and stopping in front of the mirror at the apartment’s entrance to give his reflection a quick wink before he leaves.

After a his usual 90-minute gym circuit, Scott returns home, showers once again, downs a chocolate protein shake, inhales a chicken sandwich, and manages to successfully sign up his hockey teams for exactly one game each before getting too distracted by The Office marathon playing on the small TV in the background, which ultimately steals all of his attention. By the time he realizes the amount of time he’s wasted, it’s quarter to 4, and he’s officially late to the rink; he’s still in his hole-riddled lounge pants and an old, battered _The Tragically Hip_ tee with most of the image flaking off after years of wear, and he has yet to pack his skates and gear.

Scott swears under his breath as he abandons everything to race around the apartment, hopping into a pair of black pants as he runs to find his gear. He manages to get to the rink with about 10 seconds to spare, and surprisingly without a speeding ticket, bursting into the building to find most if not all of the team already skating some laps. Scott silently thanks the sky that he was given a team much more independent and mature than the one he had last year. He is sure they were responsible for the few stray grays on his head.

Scott blows his whistle as he gets onto the ice, motioning for all for the team to skate over to the boards where he’s standing.

“Hey everyone, sorry I’m a little late but I’m glad you all decided to be productive and not goof off, and I thank you for that. Now, let’s start off with a few drills.”

The next two hours fly by for Scott, something he always notices when it comes to hockey. There’s nothing he’s more passionate about, and hates that the one part of the day he truly enjoys has to slip through his fingers so quickly. Plus, with the season coming to an end, he knows he’ll only be picking up longer shifts at the bar to make up for the absence of hours at the rink, and nothing makes him roll his eyes harder. He’s really quite thankful for the bartending gig, and he loves his boss Charlie, but he absolutely hates the late nights and headaches and permanent booze scent on his skin that comes with the job.

By the time Scott arrives back to his apartment, he’s sweaty, hungry, and completely tired, but he knows his day is not quite over yet; there’s still nine hours left before he can come back home and pass the fuck out. Scott sighs, trudging into the kitchen to find anything that could possibly be thrown into a stir fry; his energy levels were way too low to whip out a cookbook like he usually does, and he wanted something with minimal effort.

He decides on some leftover steak strips, frozen green beans, and half a head of broccoli he doesn’t quite remember buying, mixed with soy sauce and the last bit of rice he has left. He takes his time eating at first, before catching sight of the time and realizing he has exactly fifteen minutes to shower, change, and drive the ten minutes it usually takes him to get to the bar.

He remembers this morning how he thought he was actually becoming more on-time.

Boy, was he wrong.

Scott is pretty sure he shoves the remaining half of the stir fry into his mouth, almost choking as he throws the plate into the sink to wash later. He silently prays that the sound it made wasn’t it shattering into a million pieces. He thanks his earlier self for laying out his uniform—a black button-up shirt, dark blue jeans, and simple black shoes—and barely has his shirt over his head as he races out the door.

Today just really isn’t his day.

As he speeds to the bar, once again avoiding a speeding ticket, he silently wishes for something good to happen to him tonight. _Literally anything_ , he pleads as he swipes his key card at the employee entrance, pulling open the heavy door and letting it slam shut behind him.

Despite being certain that he couldn’t feel any shittier at this particular moment, Scott plasters that charming smile on his face that makes men and women alike melt as he greets his coworkers.

He weaves his way through the narrow hallway, abandoning his things in a locker that looks like it’s seen better days, grabbing his name tag and making his way out to the floor.

He groans at the sight he’s faced with: countless bodies crammed into the already-small space, yells and clapping coming like a hammer to his skull.

 _The man upstairs must really fucking hate me today_ , he thinks as he glances at the clock. 7:05 PM. Exactly 8 hours until every single person out there has to be outside before he calls the cops. 8 hours too long.

But he really doesn’t have a choice at this point.

Scott slaps his megawatt grin back onto his face as a group of ladies make their way over to the bar, giggling like idiots. He knows they’re all going to try to flirt with him and take him home, but he couldn’t be in less of a mood for it. For once in his life, he actually would rather be handed sleep than a pretty girl’s bed to climb into.

“Show time,” he mutters through his smile, greeting the women as they approach him, making note of each woman’s order and the way they take their time letting their eyes roam his body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was watching The Office when I started writing Tessa's POV, can you tell?


	4. But you can make me a drink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to "White's," the bar where it all begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't realize how long this chapter was until I finished it, but I think you'll enjoy it anyway.

It's almost 9 PM asTessa steps through the door of _White’s_ , and she almost instantly regrets the decision to come. The place is  _packed_ , and if there’s one thing she absolutely hates, it’s being in crowds. There's always a greater chance she could be recognized.

But after a quick scan of the room, she relaxes slightly, given the fact that almost everyone was so damn drunk that they probably can’t even see straight. Plus, the dim lighting makes it fairly difficult to make out the exact features of people in the room.

It isn’t the most glamorous place: the paint on the walls is peeling, the cracks in the floor are filled with dirt and who knows what else, and an odd scent of alcohol mixed with sweat and something she can’t quite put her finger on engulfs the small space . It's incredibly different from what she's used to, all the private bars where the only people inside were on a short and specific list, with fountains and hors d'oeuvres and chandeliers and-

She shakes her head to clear her thoughts, noticing she still hasn’t moved from the entrance of the bar. There are a couple drunk guys staring at her, eyes wide and filled with desire, but the last thing she’s here to do is entertain. Even with the odd one here and there, Tessa was never one for hookups, and she was certainly not going to get hot and heavy with some hicktown country boy from the middle of nowhere; she can do _so_ much better.

She loves the outfit she picked out for today: black leather-like pants, a white, long-sleeve top with mesh above and below the chest, and her favourite black and grey heeled booties, her light hair cascading down her back in loose curls. It was a huge change from the professional attire she typically wears, and the pyjamas she's in every other time. She missed having a huge closet with one-of-a-kind pieces curated just for her, but when she sold her things she made sure to keep this outfit. She had never worn it out before because it never fit with the aesthetic she was going for, but she had always hoped to wear it one day.

And today is that day.

It's the first night she’s been out since she moved away from home, and it feels strange not being around friends, instead surrounded by strangers in a space so small that it's impossible not to accidentally rub against anyone as she slowly makes her way towards the back where the bar was.

No one turns around.

Tessa finds an empty barstool in the corner, and hums in satisfaction when she notices the two seats next to it are empty as well. She’s not in a socializing mood either.

She’s in a “time to get _absolutely fucked_ ” mood.

As she sits down, she asks for a beer and doesn’t hesitate to throw it back in a few gulps before ordering another. Tessa's never been a huge fan of the taste, but she learned a few years ago that the less amount of time you take to drink something, the less you’ll taste it. And it’s come in handy more times than she can remember.

With every shot she orders, Tessa can feel herself relaxing, her tense shoulders dropping down, and all of the worries poking and prodding in her conscious mind fading away. She begins to feel less like a machine and more like a _person_. It’s been so long since she’s felt this way, and for the first time in what feels like forever, she smiles.

A small smirk, one that likely no one else notices, but it's mostly just for herself anyway.

But after the fifth shot, that bright and beautiful cloud 9 that Tessa found herself on suddenly betrays her, opening up beneath her feet and sending her into freefall down to towards the darkest corners of her mind.

Staring at the small glass in front of her, her throat burning from the vodka, it truly hits her for the first time tonight that she was alone. _Really_ alone. Despite living here for two months, she hasn’t made one friend. Not even one _acquaintance_. But it's no one’s fault but her own. She chose to put her guard up. She chose not to interact with anyone. She chose to isolate herself and run away from her past.

She chose to fuck up those numbers.

It’s her fault that she’s even here in the first place.

She immediately connects the heels of her palm to her eyes, pressing hard until she sees stars dancing around against the darkness of her eyelids.

There was something about the circumstances, all of the alcohol screaming through her body and the fact that she’s here at some beat-up bar at the end of a shitty day that should have been fun that finally breaks her down.

So she cries.

And cries.

And cries.

She was never one to wear her heart on her sleeve, to show emotion in public. That only showed vulnerability, and especially as a woman in business, vulnerability was only a weakness. It was already tough being a female at the top of the business game, with all the men sneering and making fucked up remarks about how women weren’t made for management positions and how her being to famous must be a mistake. Any bit of emotion she showed was immediately used against her, used to tease and hurt and cut at her deepest insecurities, every comment a single brick layed down until a wall formed around her heart. It was much easier, she learned, to never talk about your personal life and only present yourself as happy and positive.

Then they couldn’t hurt you.

Maybe that’s why she did it; to prove them wrong. To prove that she could be successful. That she _was_ successful.

But it’s not like she wasn’t; she was _at the top_. Why did she do it then?

Why?

Why?

_Why?_

She suddenly feels the presence of someone in front of her on the other side of the bar, probably a bartender ready to pity her and ask if her boyfriend broke up with her or if she just got fired or if her dog died.

She quickly wipes underneath her eyes, taking a deep breath in an attempt to pull herself together and make it look like she isn’t some mess that’s been bawling her fucking eyes out for the last…

She glances at her watch.

...hour?

 _Shit,_ she thinks.

But when she looks up, she isn’t greeted with eyes of pity.

Standing in front of her is a fairly handsome man; she has to admit. He couldn’t be older than 30. He has long brown hair, but not the kind that flows down to his shoulders and is filled with grease and gel and needs a good wash. It's the perfect length, just long enough to cover his ears, a single curl hanging down over his forehead. A black, button-up shirt hugs his torso, and she can't help but notice how the tight fit outlines the muscles on his abdomen and leaves his arms on display. His eyes are pools of dark honey, but they looked almost...nervous?

“Um...hi?” she starts. After a few moments without a reply, she continues. “Can I help you?”

“Oh uh. Hi. Sorry I’m just...hey...you wouldn’t be _Tessa Virtue_ by chance? Like _the_ Tessa Virtue, the fashion designer?” the man quietly stammers out.

Tessa’s heart stops. _Oh no._

“Oh um no! No, no, no.” she laughs nervously, looking down at her hands. “I get that a lot though. Like...a lot of people say I look like her. I don’t see it though. Like we don’t even have the same hair colour! And I just-“

She stops, realizing that her rambling isn’t helping her case.

 _Oh, fuck me._ She thinks. _It would be so much easier to lie to this guy if he wasn’t so damn hot._

He lets out a quiet laugh and puts his hands up. “I believe you, don’t worry. Don’t tell anyone this, but I used to love her. She was so cool, so down to earth and whatever. It really sucks what happened to her. Never would have thought she’d do something like that, you know?”

Tessa cringes internally, but hums in agreement with the man.

“Um, anyway, I mostly came over here to see if you were okay,” he whispers, barely audible above the music. “You looked like you were crying.”

 _There it is,_ she thinks.

“Yeah I’m fine, just had a bit of a rough day. Thank you though.” she notices the concern in his eyes, and repeats, “Really, I am fine.”

“Now _that_ I don’t believe,” he starts. “I don’t like seeing pretty girls cry.”

 _So_ that’s _what he wants, huh._

“Look,” she begins defensively, “If you’re only here to try to get into my pants-”

“No!” he cuts her off. “No, that’s not at all what I’m trying to do.” He stops speaking, and she can’t tell if he’s going to start back again. He looks deep in thought, like he’s trying to find the right words to say. “I, uh, just thought you looked like you could use someone to talk to. And I mean, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to talk to you. You are really pretty.” He laughs again, and it sends warmth through her whole body, like a hug on a cold day.

“Thank you,” Tessa smiles. “You should see me when I’m not all dressed up though. That’s a different story.”

When he laughs this time, it’s no longer the quiet, restraint ones he has given her thus far. It’s louder, a booming laugh that sees to fill the room and sing in her ears. A few people look their way with their faces scrunched up in disapproval, but she doesn’t care.

She thinks his laugh is the best thing she’s ever heard.

Once he collects himself, he speaks once again. “I highly doubt that. Anyway, I never introduced myself. I’m Scott, but I’m now realizing as I talk that,” he motions to the metal name tag pinned to the left side of his shirt, his name printed in capitals in a neat font, “You probably already knew that.”

She laughs now, shaking her head. “Honestly, I think I was too plastered to notice.” She smiles at him, taking a deep breath before saying, “I’m Jordan.”

He returns the smile, and she notices that he has the most perfect teeth, so noticeably white even in the shitty lighting.

“Well hi, Jordan. I’d ask if I could make you a drink but it looks like…” he scans the bar in front of her, obviously noting the abundance of bottles and glasses lined up in two perfect rows beside her.

Heat rises to Tessa’s face, and she lowers her head in embarrassment.

He gives her a sympathetic smile. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve seen a _lot_ worse than this. Trust me. Can I get you something else though? Maybe a water?”

“That would be lovely.” She pauses. “Thank you, Scott.”

He nods and walks away, returning with a bottle of water in what feels like ages to Tessa. He hands it to her, and she takes it, the brief moment that their fingers touch, making her heart flutter.

_What the fuck is wrong with me?_

He smiles at her before turning to walk away once again, this time to probably return to doing his job.

“Wait!” she places her hand on top of Scott’s just before it leaves the countertop, hers so much smaller against his. She glances at the clock, where it reads 10:30 PM. “How much longer is your shift?” Her voice sounds distant to her, like she’s hearing herself from a few stools over.

“I’m here until closing.” He makes a face, scrunching his nose and squinting his eyes in a way that a child might when a parent forces them to do something. She laughs at this, and he joins in.

“Buuuuut,” he begins, “Lucky for me, I’m pretty sure my boss won’t even notice if I just…” Scott leans over the bar to grab the empty stool beside her, lifting it over to his side and setting it down before dramatically plopping himself onto it. “You picked a good place to sit. In the corner, under the shittiest lighting in the whole place, far from the spot where the actual drink mixing takes place...it’s like you’re hidden.”

“That was actually my intention,” Tessa replies.

“To be hidden? _Why?”_

“Let’s just say I’m not one who enjoys attention.”

“I see. I’m not a huge fan of that either, but here I am, putting on a show back here every night having to pour drinks all fancy,” he makes exaggerated pouring actions that requires movement of his whole upper body, “and shake shit up,” he clasps his hands together and violently shakes them over his shoulders, “and I’m honestly not even a big fan. Most of the stuff people order is nasty.”

She laughs at his dramatic abilities, and he smiles at her.

“Okay, you think this sucks, I work at a fucking paper distribution company. A _paper company_." 

"Wait, like  _The Office_?"

"God, I wish it was like _The Office_. It's worse; no one smiles, no one speaks. The only sounds in the entire place are some old guy's heavy breathing and the phones ringing. Like, how shit does your life have to be to end up somewhere like that? I feel like bartending is so much better.”

He throws his head back in laughter at her description. “Okay, okay, you definitely win. That _is_ shitty.”

“Tell me about it.”

They both laugh, and she can’t help but feel a sense of comfort in Scott’s presence. They’ve only been chatting for about half an hour, but she feels like she’s known him for years.

Shouts interrupt her thoughts and bring her back to the present.

“Hey, Moir!” someone yells. A tall man with dark hair walks over, and when he smiles she can see that he has deep dimples in his cheeks. “We’ve been looking for you. Come on man, we need a bit of help over there,” he tilts his head over to a large group clustered in another section of the bar, a few bartenders running around to find drinks and mix them.

Scott laughs. “Sorry Poje, be right over.” The two men give each other a fist bump before the dark-haired one walks away.

“Well, duty calls. Looks like they found me after all.” Scott shakes his head and wisps of his hair fall on his forehead. He runs his hand through his hair to push the strands out of the way, and Tessa notes how perfectly they fall back into place. He stands up and swings the stool effortlessly back to her side of the bar, putting his hands in his pockets. “I should probably go before I get my ass kicked.”

“You have your phone on you?” Tessa suddenly says.

“Uh, yeah?”

“Give it to me. I’ll give you my number.”

Scott smiles down at his feet, reaching into his back pocket for his phone. He does a bit of swiping and clicking before handing it to her, watching her as she slowly types the numbers onto the screen, hesitating before she types “Jordan” into the name box.

She feels like she’s melting under his gaze, like he’s trying to take her all in but see through her simultaneously.

She hands it back to him, smiling wide. “I’d love to chat with you maybe when I’m _not_ so drunk?”

He laughs, a shy little laugh, before speaking. “I’d love that too.”

He begins to walk away, but quickly backtracks to where he was standing. “Do you have a ride home? Do you want me to call you an Uber? A taxi? A-“

“Yes, I’m fine. Don’t worry. Now go back to work before you _do_ get your ass kicked and it’s all my fault.”

He smiles. “Talk to you later, Jordan.”

“Bye, Scott,” she says as he jogs over to where the rest of his co-workers are.

She watches him for a while, the way he grabs drinks and mixes them and laughs at his co-workers and notices the smile plastered on his face is definitely fake, though she isn’t sure if anyone else would be able to tell.

She’s mesmirized by him, and she can’t help but wonder if he’s even real, if maybe she’s actually just asleep on her couch at home in front of the TV and this is just a crazy dream.

But she hopes it isn’t.

A buzz from her phone takes her from her thoughts, alerting her that her ride was outside. She leaves money on the counter for her drinks, gathers her things, and is almost sure she feels Scott’s eyes on her as she weaves through the crowded room towards the exit of the bar.

 

* * *

 

  
The first two hours of Scott’s shift are the _absolute worst_.

Within the first half an hour, he manages to drop _two_ glasses on two _separate_ occasions, earning nothing but dirty looks from his co-workers who now had to leap over his mess and the customers he was bringing the drinks to. And cleaning it all up was difficult when there's countless people maneuvering around the mess, side-stepping and jumping over it and even stepping in it and tracking the liquid farther away.

Not off to a good start.  

A little while later, he accidentally puts _too much ice_ in some man’s drink, and in response, the man dumps the liquid all over the counter, handing Scott the glass and advising he “try again.”

So, with that smile glued to his face (when isn't it?), he agrees after spending about 10 minutes cleaning up the mess that had dripped down onto both sides of the bar.

Luckily, the second time around was a winner for the man.

Scott doesn’t know what he would have done if the man dumped it again.

He doesn’t think he would have lashed out, but he may or may not have yelled. Just a little.

If this happened about ten years earlier, Scott knows all that he would have probably leapt over the counter, grabbing hold of the man on his shoulders before shoving him to the ground and probably getting escorted by police.

And getting fired.

And probably having countless restraining orders filed against him.

Scott shakes his head. He hates thinking about his past self, someone he’s nothing but ashamed of. He’s been trying recently to stay focused on the future, on his goals and ambitions and how he wants to improve and where he sees himself in one, two, three years. It works most of the time, but he can’t help but get sucked back into the past, back to the day it was all over for him.

 

_The drive to the police station is long and quiet._

 

_The two officers in the front seat murmur back and forth to each other, but nothing that’s audible to him over the sound of his blood boiling in his ears._

 

_Everything is a blur, from the time he first sat in the car right up until he finds himself seated in a locked room with one-way glass, an officer seated in front of him, scribbling notes on a document._

 

_He knows he fucked up, so, so bad._

 

_"Um, officer-”_

 

_“Scott Moir. Do you know why you’re here?”_

 

_He nods slowly, eyes lowered in shame._

 

_The officer continues on, ignoring his nod of understanding. “You assaulted two people today, both instances resulting in serious injury. Do you know that, Mr. Moir?”_

 

_He nods again._

 

_“How old are you, Mr, Moir?”_

 

_“17, ma’am.”_

 

_“17, huh?” The officer hasn’t looked up from the document once, writing random notes all over the page that aren’t quite legible from the other side of the table._

 

_“Yes, ma’am.”_

 

_After a few moments of silence, the officer speaks again. “I’ll tell you what we can do. We won’t send you to jail, but there are a couple of consequences for your actions today. First, you’re going to have to stay here for a couple of days while we ask you more questions about the incident and interview witnesses to get a full account of the story. Second, we’re going to have to charge you, Mr. Moir. Especially since incidents like this have happened before, just never to this extent. The charges will stay on your criminal record, and will be not only your responsibility to pay off but also your parents’. There is a chance the parties injured could bring you to court, but that’s nothing we have control over. Do you understand, Mr. Moir?”_

 

_He nods once again, feeling as though all he’s been doing for the past ten minutes is nodding._

 

_“Good. We will be bringing in a few other investigators to speak with you shortly.”_

 

_The officer collects her papers, stands up, and leaves the room._

 

_It's so silent._

 

_He puts his head down on the table and closes his eyes._

 

_He feels nothing._

 

When Scott snaps out of his thoughts, he notices a slim figure weave her way through the crowd and seat herself at the very end of the bar, in the corner where no one ever sits because of how dark and foul smelling it is. He actually has no explanation for the smell because the place is fairly clean, but as for the lighting, the person who designed the building just decided that corner didn’t deserve any ceiling or wall lights. Charlie did bring in a floor lamp once, but the first night it made an appearance, the lamp was used as a weapon in a fight that broke out, nearly used to club a guy over the head. The lamp was never seen in _White’s_ again.

But the woman sitting there doesn’t seem to mind the darkness. He can’t see her that clearly,  and he can’t tell why he keeps looking her way; there’s just something—familiar?—about her. Scott racks his brain for the following hour about how on Earth he could possibly know this woman, and every time he looks over at her, she has a new drink in front of her. He can’t tell if he’s concerned or worried or not even feeling anything at all because why would he be stressed about someone he doesn’t know?

So Scott goes back to serving drinks, mixing weird cocktails, and dodging the hands of women who try to reach across the bar to touch him.

The next time he glances over at the woman, she has her head in her hands, and Scott immediately knows that she’s crying. His heart aches for a moment as he wonders what could be wrong; Scott hates seeing people cry, and he always felt like their hurt was also his. That was one quality that many people loved about him: his compassion and empathy. Despite his rocky teenage years, Scott never lost those qualities. He was always the one people went to when they needed a shoulder to cry on, and that was one thing he was most proud of. He loved being someone that people trusted, and nothing made him feel better about himself.

The number of glances her way per minute increased after noticing the crying, and Scott becomes more and more distracted by it as the night progressed. After about an hour of this, Scott contemplates whether or not he should walk over and see if she's okay.

The next time he looks over, he catches the woman wiping her eyes, and for the first time, he can see her face clearly.

And that’s when he recognizes her.

He is _certain_ that is Tessa Virtue, the fashion-mogul-gone-fraud, sitting mere meters away from where he stands. What the hell is she doing here, in this small town?

She has blonde hair now, instead of her normal espresso tresses, and she looks a little thinner, but otherwise extremely similar to the Tessa he knew.

Scott used to keep up with the designer all the time, following her on all of her social medias and watching all of her interviews. There was just something about her that drew him to her. She was so _real_ , and never tried to act like someone she wasn’t, something that most designers do. She was goofy and smart and professional and Scott would have done anything to meet her, or at least meet someone _like_ her.

You could say that Tessa Virtue was his celebrity crush.

Scott feels himself walking over to her involuntarily, like a magnet pulling him towards her corner. The closer he gets, the less sure he is that it's her. The facial features suddenly don't match, builds not quite the same. But before he could rethink his actions and turn around to go back to working, the woman snaps her head up as though she anticipated his presence.

_There is no way that this is Tessa Virtue. What the hell was I thinking?_

“Um...hi?” The woman says after a few beats of silence. Her green eyes are surrounded by a halo of red, and her makeup is streaked with streams of water, revealing a few freckles.

He doesn’t say anything. He realizes he made a huge mistake coming over here.

“Can I help you?” she prompts, more agitated this time.

“Oh uh. Hi. Sorry I’m just...hey...you wouldn’t be _Tessa Virtue_ by chance? Like _the_ Tessa Virtue, the fashion designer?” Scott blurts out.

 _Holy shit...what the fuck is wrong with me? This is_ not _her, man._

“Oh um no! No, no, no.” the woman laughs and looks down at her hands. “I get that a lot though. Like...a lot of people say I look like her. I don’t see it though. Like we don’t even have the same hair colour! And I just-“

Scott cuts her off. “I believe you, don’t worry. Don’t tell anyone this, but I used to love her. She was so cool, so down to earth and whatever. It really sucks what happened to her. Never would have thought she’d do something like that, you know?”

_Huh? Why did I just say that?_

“Um, anyway, I mostly came over here to see if you were okay. You looked like you were crying.”

“Yeah I’m fine,” she waves her hand in dismissal. “Just had a bit of a rough day. Thank you though. Really, I am fine.”

“Now _that_ I don’t believe,” he presses. “I don’t like seeing pretty girls cry.”

 _Woah.._.pretty girls cry? _Dude, now she's going to think you're coming onto her._

As expected, the woman’s expression changes from soft to angry. “Look, if you’re only here to try to get into my pants-”

“No!” he cuts her off. “No, that’s not at all what I’m trying to do.” Scott hesitates a little too long before adding, “I, uh, just thought you looked like you could use someone to talk to. And I mean, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to talk to you. You are really pretty.” And he's telling the truth. The woman _is_ really pretty, and he loves how flattering the white shirt she's wearing is. 

“Thank you,” the woman smiles, and Scott’s insides melt. “You should see me when I’m not all dressed up though. That’s a different story.”

He laughs loudly at her statement, and tries to collect himself when he begins to realize some people are staring at him with looks of disgust. “I highly doubt that. Anyway, I never introduced myself. I’m Scott, which I’m now realizing as I talk that,” he motions to his name tag, “You probably already knew that.”

The woman bursts into a fit of giggles, shaking her head. She has such a beautiful laugh. “Honestly, I think I was too plastered to notice. I’m Jordan.”

“Well hi, Jordan. I’d ask if I could make you a drink but it looks like…” he stares down at the glasses and bottles in front of her.

Jordan blushes, lowering her head in embarrassment.

He gives her a sympathetic smile. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve seen a _lot_ worse than this. Trust me. Can I get you something else though? Maybe a water?”

“That would be lovely.” She pauses. “Thank you, Scott.”

He notes her order and walks towards the cluster of his co-workers by the drinks, signaling for someone on the other end to throw him a bottle of water. He catches it with ease and walks back over to where Jordan is sitting, wringing her hands. After placing the bottle of water in front of her, Scott smiles warmly at her before turning around to walk back to where he _should_ be; he doesn’t think this woman is all that interested in him anyway, and he’s definitely missing out on some good tips.  

“Wait!” Jordan places her small hand on top of his, and Scott feels his heart flip in his chest. Her touch sends electricity through his body, and he never wants her to move her hand away. “How much longer is your shift?”

“I’m here until closing.” He scrunches up his face, feeling satisfied when he hears her laugh. “Lucky for me, I’m pretty sure my boss won’t even notice if I just…” In one swift motion, he reaches over the bar, grabs the empty stool beside Jordan, swings it over to his side, places it in front of her and sits down in it. “You picked a good place to sit. In the corner, under the shittiest lighting in the whole place, far from the spot where the actual drink mixing takes place...it’s like you’re hidden.”

“That was actually my intention,” Jordan says.

“To be hidden? _Why?”_

“Let’s just say I’m not one who enjoys attention.”

“I see. I’m not a huge fan of that either, but here I am, putting on a show back here every night having to pour drinks all fancy, and shake shit up, and I’m honestly not even a big fan. Most of the stuff people order is nasty.” He makes silly, exaggerated movements as he speaks, and he doesn’t understand why he feels so comfortable being a complete goof in front of a woman he barely knows. It just feels...different with her.

“Okay,” Jordan challenges, "You think this sucks, I work at a fucking paper distribution company. A  _paper company_." 

Scott's eyebrows shoot up in interest, his mind immediately wandering to his favourite TV show. "Wait, like  _The Office_?"

"God, I wish it was like  _The Office_. It's worse; no one smiles, no one speaks. The only sounds in the entire place are some old guy's heavy breathing and the phones ringing. Like, how shit does your life have to be to end up somewhere like that? I feel like bartending is so much better.”

“Okay, okay, you definitely win. That  _is_ shitty.”

“Tell me about it.”

Andrew Poje, one of Scott’s co-workers, interrupts their conversation when he walks over to them, shouting Scott’s name. “We’ve been looking for you. Come on man, we need a bit of help over there.”

Scott laughs, but feels his heart sink a little. “Sorry Poje, be right over.”

Once Andrew is gone, Scott looks at Jordan apologetically. “Well, duty calls. Looks like they found me after all.” He swings the barstool back to where it belongs before adding, “I should probably go before I get my ass kicked.”

“You have your phone on you?” Jordan asks.

“Uh, yeah?”

“Give it to me. I’ll give you my number.”

Scott smiles down at his feet, reaching into his back pocket for his phone and handing it to her. He mentally notes that this might just be the best night he’s had in a long, _long_ time.

Jordan hands it back to him after what feels like eternity. “I’d love to chat with you maybe when I’m _not_ so drunk?”

Scott laughs. “I’d love that too.”

He begins to walk away, but quickly backtracks to where he was standing. “Do you have a ride home? Do you want me to call you an Uber? A taxi? A-“

“Yes, I’m fine. Don’t worry. Now go back to work before you _do_ get your ass kicked and it’s all my fault.”

He smiles. “Talk to you later, Jordan.”

“Bye, Scott.”

He nods and walks back over to the chaos on the other side, and despite being overwhelmed with countless orders flying from the mouths of the large group of drunks, he makes sure to watch Jordan as she walks towards the exit, keeping his eyes on her until she steps outside, out of sight, and the door closes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congrats, you made it through! If you want a reference for Tessa's outfit, it's the one she wore in one of the first promo photos when she launched her BonLook line last year. If you scroll through her Instagram a little, you'll find it: white mesh/solid shirt and leather pants. And of course I had to make her wear those cute grey/black heeled boots she wears everywhere now. I'd be lying if I said I didn't want a pair.


	5. Is it chill that you're in my head?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neither of them can get the other out of their mind, but there's no denying the fears that linger behind those feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to my writer's block for encouraging me to take nearly two months to write this one. Better not happen again smh.

When Tessa opens her eyes the next morning to a spinning room, she immediately regrets it, quickly shutting her eyes once again and letting out a long groan.

Being hungover is the worst.

And now she has to go to work.

She isn’t a teenager anymore; she’s _twenty-nine_ for fuck’s sakes, she should have known better. What an awful move on her part.

For a brief moment, she wishes she had just stayed home and watched the _Jeopardy_ marathon while finishing off that pint of double chocolate brownie ice cream that’s been taunting her from the back of her freezer for the last few days. Then, she would have woken up fine, and not wanted to throw herself off her third floor balcony.

But when she rolls over to check her phone and sees a text from an unknown number, she begins to remember why it was all worth it.

She unlocks the device and opens the message.

 

_Hey! It’s Scott from last night. I’m hoping you remember me, though you were pretty far gone so I’m more than likely a little blurred in your memory._

 

Tessa stops reading and cringes, the realization of how many drinks she downed the previous night comes like a slap to the face, the imprint of her decisions leaving behind an angry, burning mark. She quickly returns to the message before any more memories come flooding back.

 

_You’re definitely feeling it this morning, and don’t try to fight me on that. Drink lots of water, try to eat a little bit, down some Advil and it should be tolerable. It was really nice to meet you. Hope to hear from you soon :)_

 

Tessa’s heart flutters in her chest, a goofy grin stretching out across her face as she clutches her phone to her chest. She is certain that she made a complete fool out of herself last night—not that she can remember all that well—but despite her foolishness, he still cared.

She can’t remember the last time a guy did something as simple as showing he cared.

Most guys just tried to get with her because of who she is.

Er, _was_.

Tessa sighs, bringing her face to her hands. _Jesus, Tessa, you really need to let it go._

A perfectionist since a small child, Tessa held onto every little mistake, every critique, every bump in the path and made it personal. As much as she hated to admit it, she took everything to heart; she’s just damn good at hiding it. She’s always had the mindset that internalizing the bad will help to continuously remould her into someone stronger and better than the last version of herself, but she failed to realize just how much weight each of these things carried, like steel stacked upon her shoulders that she could never shake. As much as she wants the scraps of rusting metal to go away, they remained glued to her shoulders. But over the years, she’s realized maybe the only thing standing in the way of happiness is herself.

_Why can’t I let go?_

But it's a question for which she doesn’t have an answer.

Tessa rolls sluggishly out of bed, groaning once more at the hammers hitting sloppily away at her skull. She stands for a total of 5 seconds before she turns back around, bending at the hips to connect her forehead to the mattress, arms dangling beside her legs. She feels like absolute _shit_ , but she could definitely stay like this for a while. She _is_ technically out of bed, right?

The knowledge that she has to get ready for work hangs over her like a cloud as she slowly brings herself to stand once again, stretching her hands towards the popcorn ceiling. After doing as Scott instructed, she heads for the shower.

With the warmth of the shower water trickling down her body and swirling down the drain, Tessa can feel her stress flowing with it, her muscles slowly relaxing as her mind clears to project a softened image of a hazel-eyed man with a shy smile. An image, for once, she doesn’t try to push away.

Ready for work and waiting for her coffee machine to spew out her life support, Tessa pulls her phone from the pocket of her jeans (thank God for casual Fridays at the office) with intent swirling in her green eyes. Her thumbs hover over the keyboard for a few moments before she quickly types a message, nails clicking against the screen.

 

T: _I don’t remember a lot about yesterday, and honestly I’d like to keep it that way. But there is one thing I remember pretty clearly._

 

Tessa decides to leave it at that, feeling a little playful this morning.

As she pours the coffee into a travel mug and slips on a simple pair of black flats, she feels her pocket buzz.

 

S: _Oh really? And what would that be?_

 

She’s surprised he got back to her so quickly, given the time, but she doesn’t care at all. She hesitates for a moment, before slowly typing out a single word:

 

T: _You._

 

When she reaches the dingy elevators, clicking the button to take her down to parking, a vibration comes once more.

 

S: _Well, I am known to have that effect on people._

 

Tessa rolls her eyes.

 

T: _Haha, real funny._

S: _How are you feeling?_

T: _As good as a hungover woman can get, I guess? Work is going to be absolute hell._

 

Feeling unsatisfied with her response, she types an additional message to follow the last.

 

T: _Thank you for looking out for me, by the way. It really means a lot._

S: _You’re welcome. Honestly, sometimes thinking about it just makes it worse, messes with your head or whatever. Work will be fine, and if not, I give you permission to call me out, swear._

 

Tessa laughs, mind whirling with a cloud of witty comebacks before her phone shakes with another message.

 

S: _I really enjoyed talking to you yesterday, Jordan, and I’d love to go out with you sometime. You seem like a really interesting person, even when you’re shitfaced._

 

Tessa laughs once more, much more loudly so that she earns a few side glances from other people hurrying towards their cars, beginning a day that would be much similar to hers.

Of course, minus the hot bartender asking her out.

 

T: _I’d love that. Is tonight too soon? I finish work at 5. How does coffee sound?_

S: _Nope, tonight's perfect. I’m definitely going to need some coffee for my shift later. At the café on Main?_

T: _Of course. Meet at 6?_

S: _Wouldn’t miss it._

 

As she starts the engine and pulls onto the busy roads, Tessa can’t help but feel a tug at the corners of her mouth and a flutter so intensely in her heart that she could have sworn it had grown wings and was threatening to fly away.

She walks to her desk with joy painted on her face and motivation coursing through her veins, unbothered by the painfully tall tower of forms piled upon her desk.

Is it weird that she can’t stop thinking about him?

For the first time since she began the job, the day felt as though it was racing past her far too quickly to notice any of its details. Usually, she finds that the day of an event passes as quickly as molasses may flow from a container, teasing her unfairly, so Tessa is genuinely surprised when her colleagues slowly begin to filter out of the office, one by one. She glances at the small time printed in the bottom right corner of her computer screen, _5:00 PM_ , her pulse picking up speed. She isn’t sure if it’s from the nerves or excitement, but she figures it may be both.

Tessa’s feet lead her out to her car, a peculiar spring in their steps that feels quite foreign to her. For once, she feels genuinely _happy_ ; an emotion that has not veiled her body in what seems like eternity. But as she sits in her car, key in hand to start the engine, one thing dawns in her that she failed to realize before:

She isn’t her.

She’s _lying_ to Scott about who she is.

He doesn’t like _her_. He likes the story she has created for herself. He likes _Jordan_ , not Tessa.

She remembers how he had believed her when she dismissed his suspicions of her identity last night in the bar. She doesn’t even want to venture into the theoretical timeline in which he finds out she had been lying to him since the beginning.

Tessa grips the keys in her hands until her knuckles are white with numbness, the edges of the metal creating small incisions across her palm.

Should she just tell him the truth?

_Don’t be fucking ridiculous._

What if she screws this up?

What will he do if he finds out?

What if he _doesn’t_ find out _?_

Will she have to lie to him forever?

Questions taunt Tessa as she rests her forehead against the steering wheel.

What the hell has she done?

 

* * *

 

J: _Of course. Meet at 6?_

S: _Wouldn’t miss it._

 

Scott can’t help the smile that spreads like wildfire across his face as Jordan sends a grinning emoji in response to his previous text. Though he should definitely be sleeping, he isn’t tired in the slightest bit.

The image of a beautiful blonde is etched deep into the corners of his mind, keeping him wide awake.

His thoughts would recede and then rush back towards her every so often, even so long after she had left the bar that night.

He decided to text her once he got home, just to make sure she was alright. Scott didn’t doubt for a second that she would feel like absolute shit when she woke up this morning, and he hoped that maybe seeing his number flash across her screen might make her morning just a little better. He was nervous as hell once he finally sent the message, a simple check-in and an acknowledgement of how much their meeting meant to him. What if she didn’t remember him? Or what if she was just being nice, and that spark that he thought was there was completely fabricated in his mind? Or even worse, what if she had given him some bogus number as a joke?

After following the hairline cracks in his ceiling with his eyes for nearly four hours, Scott jumped at the loud _ping!_ of his phone as it pulled him from his trance. His pulse slowed significantly in relief once he saw who it was as he immediately punched out a reply.

Now, he was as giddy as a six-year-old boy, bubbling with the anticipation of being able to see Jordan once again tonight. Scott had been on a few dates her and there, though his hectic schedule and lingering guilt and fear of connections often prevented anything from advancing past the first date. But there was something different about this woman, something that made him want to abandon his past failures and fears in turn of getting to know her better, to go on countless dates and hear her laugh embracing him warmly for the rest of his life.

_Woah, what the fuck? You just met her, man. Chill._

Scott cringes internally, rubbing his palms over his face and through his hair and blaming his sleep deprivation for his out of pocket thoughts. He’s thankful he doesn’t have to coach today; just a bit of unfinished paperwork, but that can wait, and his shift at the bar doesn’t begin until 11:30 PM. Debating between going to the gym or to sleep, Scott ultimately finds himself in to the kitchen, rummaging through the cupboards until he finds the prescription he’s looking for. He figures he’s going to need a little help to fall asleep as he approaches 24 hours of consciousness, still feeling very much awake.

He makes his way back to his bedroom, sets an alarm for 5 PM, and allows the medication to pull him from reality and into darkness.

 

Scott wakes up to a shrill coursing through his ears, jolting every part of his body. For once, he remembered to keep his phone on his nightstand to make it much easier (and less annoying) when it came to snoozing the alarm. He pulls off the covers with determination, hoping to fit in a shower, a quick meal, and maybe a couple of episodes of _The Office_ before he sets out to meet Jordan, but he knows that given his troublesome time management skills, he decides to scratch that last one.

He can’t remember the last time he went on a date; probably a few years, honestly. Is tonight even _considered_ a date? They’re only meeting for coffee to get to know each other (sober this time), so does he really have to dress nicely? Does she expect him to look nice? What _do_ girls expect on a first date?

Scott lets out an exaggerated groan, his bed letting out a piercing screech as he flops onto it, gaze fixed on the ceiling. _You’re thinking too hard about this. She likes you for you, man._

After many moments of reflection and a startling realization that it’s already 5:40 PM, Scott goes into his closet with a sigh, rummaging around for a while until he pulls out a simple black, v-neck t-shirt, a dark pair of jeans, and black sneakers. He throws the clothing hastily on his body, running his hands through his damp hair a few times when he catches sight of it in the mirror in the hallway, before rushing out to his car and speeding off into the evening.

He can’t believe he really thought he would be able to successfully get through two Netflix episodes.

 

Scott doesn’t even need to look up from his seat to know the moment Jordan enters the small shop at exactly 6 PM; he just _knows_. The atmosphere shifts in a way he can’t quite describe, like the feeling you get when you awaken before dawn and watch the sky dance between shades of red, orange, yellow, and then finally blue as the morning arrives and the birds begin to sing. It’s a sense of hope, he thinks, that things will be okay.

He waves to her when their eyes finally lock after her quick scan of the small space, and the corner of her mouth lifts ever so slightly into a half-smile as she makes her way across the floor. Scott can’t deny that she looks absolutely stunning, despite the simplicity of her outfit: blue jeans and a red, floral blouse. Her hair is pulled back into a low bun, platinum pieces purposefully left out to frame her delicate face. In this light, it both startles and amazes him just how green her eyes are, a detail he didn’t notice last night in the poor lighting.

“Hey,” Jordan says quietly, quickly averting her eyes to her lap as she sits gracefully in the wooden chair. Scott wonders if her heart is threatening to push through her ribcage much like his own.

“Hey.” He smiles as she lifts her gaze back to meet his, earning him a small grin in return.

Jordan shifts in her seat, her hands rising to the table and clasping once they meet on the scratched surface.

“I just want to thank you for looking out for me last night. And today actually. It really means a lot.” She hesitates for a second, lips pursed, before softly adding, “I don’t really have anyone to do that.”

Jordan lets out a bitter laugh, eyes returning to her hands on the table as she watches her fingers twist and turn a dainty silver ring that adorns the third finger of her left hand.

Scott wonders what exactly she means by that, but doesn’t plan on asking further. They did just meet, after all. Why would she want to have a deep conversation about her hang-ups with some random guy?

“Anytime, honestly. I was pretty worried about you, but I think it’s safe to say you recovered well.” He gestures to the visible top half of her body, and his heart swells as her eyes crinkle with warm laughter that surrounds him, the mood instantly shifting.

“Not gonna lie, I was a mess this morning. I’m still a little groggy even now. This is merely a front. But I think I’ve learned my lesson.”

“I sure hope so. Next time I see you at the bar on a weekday, I’m cutting you off after two drinks.”

“Only two?” Jordan raises a perfectly arched eyebrow.

“Did I stutter?” Scott raises his brows in response, pulling a much louder laugh from Jordan, her head thrown back. A few people glance in their direction, but Scott barely notices. Something tugs at his insides then, and he knows he would do anything to hear that laugh again.

“Okay, fine. Fair enough. After last night, the chances of me ever drinking again are fairly slim so you won’t even have to worry about catching me in your bar ever again.”

“Noted.”

Jordan smiles and shakes her head at him, waving her hand in the air in dismissal of the topic.

“Anyway, enough about my pathetic drunken misfortunes. Tell me a bit about yourself, Scott.”

“Okay, so I’m a _bartender_  I have near 20/20 vision, I have brown hair—”

She reaches out and playfully flicks his arm. “You think you’re real funny, huh?”

“Some people say so.”

“Try again.”

So, Scott tells her about his parents and his brothers and throws in a few short stories from his childhood. He tells her about how he played hockey as a kid and now he coaches a couple of teams in addition to bartending. He tells her his favourite TV shows and movies that are coming out that he wants to see, and she nods and listens to him through the entirety of his ramble as though she’s paying careful attention to every detail so she doesn’t miss any spots on the painting of him she’s creating in her mind.

He neglects to tell her about the glowing embers of rage within him and the ways they have gotten him in trouble more than once. When she asks why he decided to move to a small town from another small town, he simply says that he enjoys close-knit communities but needed a change of scenery from the one he was used to.

She doesn’t question it.

When he asks Jordan about herself, his insides ache at the way her confidence dwindles, obvious nervousness drilling itself deep into her bones as she shifts slightly in her chair and her fingers latch onto that ring.

A few moments pass in silence, and he knows she’s treading in the waters of her thoughts, trying to find the perfect words. Whereas he is (mostly) an open book and without a filter, it’s clear to him that she’s more reserved, preferring to listen to other people speak than speak herself.

_I guess we really balance each other out._

She looks back up at him, her green eyes softer as he gives her a small nod of encouragement.

“Okay well,” Jordan begins, quietly clearing her throat, “I grew up in Toronto. My parents were both lawyers, and they divorced about ten years ago. My siblings and I really bonded during that time, I think. It was pretty rough, really sudden.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Jordan mouth forms a tight line, and she hesitates before she continues.

“I was a...dancer.” She stops, searching the ceiling before dropping her eyes back to meet his. “Started when I was four. I had to quit before starting university, though, because it would have been too much for me. I haven’t really danced since, which is kind of a shame. Anyway, I finished and all that, basically stayed in Toronto until...pretty recently. I just wanted to get away from that, uh, big city hustle, you know?”

Scott smiles sympathetically at her, and she answers with a little grin of her own, her eyes rapidly searching his face.

They sit there, simply looking at each other for a few minutes, their mouths slowly morphing into toothy smiles that send them each into a unified fit of laughter.

“Can I be honest with you?” Jordan holds up a hand after they both collect themselves.

“Of course.”

“I haven’t been on a date in so long. I really don’t remember how they work.”

 _So this_ is _a date? Score._

“Same here, funnily enough. Well, I mean, you said you moved here recently, so I take it that you don’t know the town all that well?”

“I wish I could say different, given how small it is. I _should_ know it by now, but honestly all I know is my apartment, the bar, work, and then the grocery store.”

He laughs at her. “It’s pretty calm at night. I’ll show you around? It’ll probably take about 5 minutes.”

“I don’t believe you. It can’t be _that_ small.”

“Bet.”

“No bets,” she laughs. “Let’s just go.”

They leave the small shop, and when he offers her his hand as they wait to cross the street, she takes it. His hand practically swallows her tiny one, bolts of electricity running up his arm.

He points out the silliest things he can think of: the huge pothole in the main intersection that has yet to be fixed after nine years, the shoes strung upon the telephone line (“That seems like a waste of perfectly good shoes. And _expensive_ shoes for that matter. Just, I don’t know, put up posters that you’ve got drugs available or something. And there’s no way someone got those up there in one shot. How did no one notice?” Jordan’s childish curiosity made Scott smile), and the tree that miraculously grows in the small space between two downtown shops, though no one knows how or when exactly it was planted in the first place. The setting sun engulfs the duo in shades of gold and burnt sienna, and Scott keeps a mental tally of all the times he manages to make Jordan’s eyes crinkle and nose scrunch with giggles.

One moment it’s light and 7:30 PM and the next it’s dark and 10:30 PM and the songs of crickets swirl in the air. They round the corner back to the coffee shop, and Jordan stops in front of it, shifting herself to stand in front of him and takes his other hand in hers.

“Thanks for all this. I had a good time.” She pauses before adding, “I’d love to go on another adventure with you sometime. You’re a fantastic tour guide, though I’ll have to take off one star because the five minute tour I was promised ended up being three hours. Unacceptable.”

Scott shrugs, trying to hide the smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Sorry, no refunds.”

“You’re funny.”

“ _Now_ you think so, eh?”

“Maybe.” Jordan must see the smirk growing on Scott’s face because she lets go of one of his hands and swats his arm. “If you let your ego swell any more, you won’t fit into your car.”

He laughs at her, and she makes her way back to his side, reaching up on the balls of her feet to plant a light kiss to his cheek.

“Goodnight, Scott.”

“Goodnight, Jordan. Drive safely, okay? Text me when you get back to your place.”

She nods, smiling at him one last time before turning around and crossing the street to where her car is parked.

Scott finds his hands making their way to the spot on his face her lips had touched, grinning like a damn idiot on the side of the road as he watches her drive away.

Once in his own car, he lets out a loud _“Woo!” as he_ punches the air a few times before driving off to the bar, the bubbly laugh of a green-eyed girl resonating in his ears.


	6. Is it too soon to do this yet?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How soon is too soon to say you love someone?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember how the when it took me 2 months to write the last chapter I said it wouldn't happen again?
> 
> Yeah, just kidding.
> 
> I feel really bad for leaving all 5 of you hanging for 3 months, so I made this chapter extra long to make up for it. I actually really enjoyed writing this one, so I hope you enjoy reading it.

For the last few weeks, Tessa has been somersaulting and backflipping between feelings of absolute ecstasy and utter fear.

She can’t deny how happy Scott makes her feel; it seems like a whole lifetime ago since she’s felt this way, the wisps of those warmly tinted memories so faint in her mind, threatening to fade for good. It’s the first time since the scandal that she’s felt like there’s someone on truly her side, ready to take on the world with her. And not because of her reputation, but because of her personality.

She wouldn’t say he’s her partner in crime because, well, that would be a little distasteful. But Scott’s always there when she needs him.

She doesn’t think there are enough stars in the sky to show him how much he means to her.

There’s something about him—Tessa knew it just seconds into their first date—that revived the once-vibrant tulips in her heart that she thought were far past the point of saving.

She thinks that evening was probably the best night of her life. As soon as she walked into the café, it was as though she was hit with absolute serenity, as though the atmosphere was telling her that everything was going to be okay for the first time in months.

Even when they left to walk around the town, her hand naturally gravitated towards his; they fit so perfectly together.

Conversation came naturally, and even the silences enveloped her in a sort of warmth that made her feel as though she was at home in his presence. She may have only known him for 24 hours, but it felt like she had known him her whole life.

It was as though they were made for each other.

Images of Scott’s hazel eyes resonated in Tessa’s head long after she kissed Scott goodbye and hesitantly let go of his hand as she walked towards her car.

She couldn’t get him off her mind for the rest of the week.

And just three weeks later, Scott has become her everything.

He is the sliver of light at the end of what once seemed like a hauntingly dark and endless tunnel.

He is the reason she wants to wake up in the morning, the reason behind the new sparkle to her once-lifeless eyes, the reason her smile is just a little bit brighter than it was three weeks ago.

He is the reason she feels happy again.

But, Tessa isn’t sure if she deserves this happiness.

And she isn’t sure if she deserves Scott either.

Sometimes, Tessa’s worried that Scott is just a figment of her imagination; he’s just _too_ perfect. Everything from his personality to his demeanour to his looks is just too perfect.

How did someone like her find someone like him?

He’s by far one of the sweetest and most genuine men she’s ever met. She knows it by the way he carries himself, and the way he says “hi” to every person he passes on the street. By the way he spoke so encouragingly to his hockey team the one time he let her sit in on one of their practices. By the way he has practically laid his heart out on the table for her to inspect and turn over in her hands until she knows all his truths.

He’s practically an open book.

She hates it.

His honesty should be comforting. She should be sighing that long-held breath of relief to know that she’s finally found someone like Scott.

Instead, it feels like a kick to the gut.

Here he is, telling her his entire life story with such raw emotion, while she stutters each syllable that leaves her tongue and hesitates even the slightest movements.

Each passing day is simply another day where Tessa adds to the snowball of her lie, silently praying that the details are believable enough to fool even the smartest of man.

It’s not fair to Scott.

She shouldn’t really feel bad, since she’s technically lying to _everyone_ in this damn town, but it’s just _different_ with him.

She can’t quite put her finger on why, and it’s been keeping her awake since the moment they met three weeks ago.

Tessa compares it to the feeling you get the moment realize that all seven of your Scrabble letters create a word, or when you finally get to your destination after what feels like ages of travelling. Or when you’re driving in the hot sun, windows down and music blaring on the back roads after weeks of miserable rain.

It’s as though someone pulled the parachute for her during her free fall to rock bottom.

She loves that jolt of electricity that courses through her veins whenever their hands meet, the way he jokes with her as though she’s a childhood friend of his, that lovely ache that grows between her thighs when he teases her, or the way the rays of the sun peeking through the curtains cast a golden glow to his shirtless body in the mornings which she awakens beside him.

Tessa’s been waiting for someone like Scott for her whole life.

She feels at peace when she’s with him.

But she wishes she could be completely honest with him.

The little, everyday movements aren’t really a lie. She’s more like herself when she’s around him than she ever has been; her job entailed her to be professional and poised, with only a little bit of room for her real personality before people would see her as strange. So, she can be her true self around Scott. It’s such a relief to her, especially after 15 years of having to present herself as someone much more put together than she really is. Even if he _was_ once a die-hard fan of hers, he wouldn’t know the real her. He only knows what she allowed him, and the rest of her fans, to see.

But when it comes to things outside of day-to-day life, it gets a little more complex.

Especially when it comes to her past.

She hates that dirty feeling she gets in her stomach when Scott asks about her family and she has to lie to him, convince him that she had a regular, uneventful childhood with an ordinary family. The only truth she’s given him so far was that her parents are divorced; she had told him on their first date. It’s such a common happening that she knows it wouldn’t spark any suspicions.

Everything else was a carefully fabricated story, one she’s been constructing over the last 3 and a half months. It’s the one she tells everyone.

She hates when he asks her to tell him stories about the things she’s done, and she has to conjure up things that a normal person would do, not a top fashion designer. And sometimes, she doesn’t even know what to say, so she pretends she’s tired or hungry or her mind is going blank and can’t think straight but she’ll tell him one later.

She hates when he asks about her schooling and education. She isn’t sure how to tell him that she never actually went to school, how she just hired people to do all the things she needed while she sketched in her office. She says she studied law at the University of Western Ontario because it’s the only school she knows well enough to make it seem as though she actually attended.

When he asks why she didn’t pursue a career in law, she just says that she fell out of love with it and has yet to find what she’s truly passionate about.

So, she’s stuck at a paper company.

She always avoids telling him that she’s good at drawing. She prays that he never finds the sketchbook she keeps underneath the mattress with sketches of beautiful ball gowns and coats and lingerie and activewear she know she’ll never get to release, her real name signed beneath each one.

She hates how self-conscious she feels when she lets him braid her hair and he points out how beautiful the auburn colour of her roots are. She hated when he says she should dye her hair back to the natural colour because he thinks it’s so beautiful, though he loves the blonde too, don’t get him wrong. She doesn’t know how to explain that she absolutely hates the blonde and wishes so badly she could dye it back too, but the blonde is so outrageously unlike her that she knows it’s the strongest layer in the mask of her new identity. So, she settles on saying how much she loves the blonde right now but maybe one day she’ll go back.

If it wasn’t for that comment he made when they first met, about his suspicion of her being, well, Tessa Virtue, she thinks that _maybe_ she would have told him eventually. Maybe.

But even though the look on his face immediately after he said that told her that he thought what just came out of his mouth was absolutely ridiculous, the thought is still in his head. She already said that she _wasn’t_ Tessa; imagine how awful it would look if she came back with _Oh, yeah, remember how I said I wasn’t Tessa Virtue? Well surprise! I actually am!_

She is certain he would be bolting from her embrace, shouting from the rooftops that Tessa Virtue hasn’t fallen off the face of the earth after all; she’s just scamming new people under a new name.

That’s a nightmare she hopes never becomes reality.

So all she can do is pray to whatever higher power is out there that it never does, because the longer she presents herself as Jordan, the worse it will be if the truth comes out.

It’s been three weeks since they met, three weeks of conversations until 3:00 AM, three weeks of butterflies, three weeks of laughter, three weeks of her getting the hang of how to answer certain questions without giving herself away.

They say it takes 21 days to form a habit. But 21 days later, Tessa doesn’t find it getting any easier.

 

  
Tessa both loves and loathes weekends. She doesn’t have to work, which is a plus in her books, but she also has nothing to do.

Literally nothing.

So while she hates her job, she also likes that there’s at least something to occupy her time. Tessa is one of those people who always needs something to do to keep her sane, whether it be running errands or reading or _anything. Jeopardy!_ isn’t on tonight, she did her shopping yesterday, and she finished reading all the books she currently has.

And she doesn’t really feel like going out.

Tessa has been lying on her couch in llama-printed pyjamas all morning, staring at her ceiling as the coffee in her favourite black-and-gold mug on the table beside her gets cold.

She can _feel_ her insides getting restless.

So, she pulls out her phone and messages the only person she craves to waste away her day with.

T: _Doing anything tonight?_

She receives a response almost immediately.

S: _Nope, I actually took the night off. I’m a little worried though. Not sure if the bar will manage without me carrying them on my back._

She can’t help but laugh.

She doesn’t even know why that’s funny.

It’s not even that he’s absolutely hilarious or anything like that. Yet, she finds herself laughing at even the simplest things he says sometimes.

She doesn’t know why, but she loves that.

T: _Carrying them on your back? Please, they probably won’t even notice you’re gone._

S: _Ouch._

Tessa bets he probably either rolled his eyes or shook his head or maybe even laughed at her poor attempt at an insult. She can picture him lying on that dark couch against the wall in his living room right now, head resting on one armrest and feet propped up on the other as he clutches his phone with both hands.

She wonders what he was doing when she texted him. Maybe he was watching hockey or _The Office_ (she learned two weeks ago that it was his favourite show; he had seen the entire series four times), or maybe he was cooking (she also learned that he is an incredible cook, a stark contrast to her limited skills).

She finds herself thinking about him a lot now.

A _ping!_ snaps her out of her thoughts.

S: _What’s brewing in that brain of yours?_

Tessa mentally scolds herself for zoning out for…

15 minutes?

Shit.

She’s left him on read this entire time.

T: _I was thinking a movie night at my place and with some take-out? I could really go for Chinese._

S: _You say this like you never eat Chinese. You literally ALWAYS want Chinese._

Tessa can’t deny that it’s true. She really does love Chinese food, but she didn’t realize it was something Scott would have picked up on.

T: _Okay, and???_

S: _OkAy AnD???_

T: _You’re literally the worst._

S: _That’s a lie and you know it._

T: _Whatever you say._

S: _Just saying!_

S: _I’ll pick it up on the way. The usual order?_

Something so simple, yet so thoughtful that it makes her heart sing and dance about beneath her ribcage.

Most guys she’s dated couldn’t even get her coffee right when she straight up told them what they were just moments before ordering.

But here Scott was, a man she’s known just shy of a month, not only keeping up with her ever-changing coffee orders (right now, it’s almond milk lattes), but also knowing her usual food orders.

If she didn’t know any better, she might say she loves him.

But, you can’t say you love someone you aren’t even officially _with_ yet, can you?

No fucking way.

T: _Yes please :)_

S: _Oh, so now you’re fine. Food is really all it takes?_

T: _You’re thisclose to having your invite revoked._

When five seconds pass without a reply, Tessa quickly taps across her screen once more and presses send.

T: _Be here for seven._

S: _Yes, ma’am._

Tessa decides it would probably be a good idea to change out of her childish pyjamas and into something a little more socially acceptable.

Her and Scott are comfortable with each other, but not _that_ comfortable.

She thinks it’ll be a while before she feels okay with facing him in pink llama pyjamas.

The thought makes her smile: waking up beside him, dancing around her apartment in their ridiculous sleep clothes, singing songs from the 2000s while they make breakfast in the bright sun rays shining through her open windows, a cool breeze swirling through the room.

She hopes they’ll get to that point.

 

* * *

 

He’s lying to her.

Well, not about everything, no.

Or, is it even _really_ lying?

Everything he tells her is the truth, 100 percent.

It’s just that he’s blacking out certain parts of the picture.

Scott isn’t lying when she asks him if he went to college or university and he says no. He decided he wanted to work full-time instead and get into coaching because he loved hockey. He didn’t see the point in going to school to get a degree in something that didn’t really interest him and waste money; he didn’t have a lot of it anyway.

He just leaves out the part where he couldn’t actually apply to any schools because he never finished high school because he practically ran away from home.

Scott isn’t lying when he said he loved playing hockey and was really good, but had to quit because he was starting to lose sight of what really mattered.

But he doesn’t say that his ‘losing sight’ was much more complicated than just those two simple words. He doesn’t say that everything that wasn’t hockey became his punching bag. And he definitely doesn’t say that he wasn’t given a choice to quit.

Scott isn’t lying when he says he didn’t really talk to his family after he moved out because of a bit of tension. When he says he has no idea what they’re up to, if they even still live in the same house or the same neighbourhood, he’s telling the truth.

He doesn’t say that he doesn’t talk to them out of shame. He doesn’t say that he left home when his parents needed him most, and made them clean up the mess he made. He doesn’t say how some nights, when it’s too quiet in his apartment and his mind wanders to the darkest areas of his imagination, he wonders if his brothers pretend he doesn’t even exist. He wonders if his brothers, probably married with children by now, avoid talking to their kids about ‘Uncle Scott,’ because quite frankly, they don’t have one.

Sometimes, his heart aches when he thinks about the small chance that his family still hopes he will return home.

He won’t. He never will.

So no, technically, Scott isn’t lying to Jordan when she asks him about his life before her.

He’s just leaving out the parts that he know will make her run away.

He’s just trying to protect her from the monster he once was.

He isn’t like that anymore. He’s better now. He would never hurt anyone, not even lay a finger on them. He’s changed, and he knows it.

So, why can’t he be completely honest with her then?

Well, it’s that small part of him that fears he hasn’t really changed at all.

He’s just gotten good at suppressing it all.

But the problem with suppression is that one day, it’ll explode out like a volcanic eruption, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

Maybe there’s no such thing as someone “changing.”

You’re always the same; you can’t escape your past, no matter how fast you run.

And this is why he told himself not to get too close to anyone in this new town.

He knows he’ll just end up hurting them in the end.

 

 

J:  _Be here for seven._

S: _Yes, ma’am._

The thing Scott loves about hanging out with Jordan is the fact that he doesn’t really have to try to impress her anymore.

The first few times they went out, he felt as though he had to do everything in his power to make sure that she liked him even just a fraction of the amount that he liked her.

But, he quickly learned that she was just as happy to go to the grocery store at 9 PM with an unshaven, sweatpant-and-band-shirt-Scott as she was going out to a fancy restaurant with a well-put-together-Scott.

He found it strange that within the few weeks they’ve known each other, they’ve already reached a level of comfort he didn’t even get to with some girls he dated for _months_.

Although, are they even dating? Did they ever define it?

Scott squints his eyes at nothing as he rummages through his brain for any sort of memory of them defining their relationship, but he comes back with nothing.

What if she just sees him as a really good friend and nothing more?

He knits his brows together in worry for a moment before laughing at himself.

_I’m pretty sure “good friends” don’t fuck each other._

He recommences sifting through the clothes hanging in his closet, trying to find his ‘comfy jeans.’

_You know sex means nothing. Someone can fuck you so good but not feel a thing about you. Maybe she’s just using you. If she liked you, she would have said it by now._

_But_ you _haven’t said anything to_ her _either. Maybe_ you’re _using_ her.

_Why do you overthink everything?_

_I do not._

_Yes, you do. No wonder you’re such a fucking coward._

His hands form into tight fists at his side, and Scott can’t tell if he needs to punch something or break something or yell or all three.

Scott would be lying to himself if he said that his mental state hasn’t been getting worse lately.

He just can’t seem to shut his mind off. It’s as though his skull is the boxing ring and he is strapped to a chair at the centre, each inch of his brain taking turns attempting to knock him out.

It’s not like things are bad for him. His boys had an incredible hockey season, bartending has been about as good as hanging around drunks all night can get, and things with Jordan have been better than he could have ever asked for.

_But have they?_

_Oh my god, shut the hell up._

Scott knows he should consider reaching out to someone and get a little bit of help, but he just doesn’t know how.

So instead, he uses the gym as his outlet each morning. His sessions are getting longer and more intense, and he has the aches in his bones and tension in his muscles and bruises and wounds across his skin to prove it.

And when the sun goes down, Jordan is always there to provide temporary relief. Each kiss that she plants across his body momentarily numbs the pain he feels there. No one else can make him feel quite like she does. She’s like his drug, and he finds himself wanting more and more of her.

 _Isn’t that a little selfish, though? Do you really like_ her _? Or do you like the way you’ve made yourself believe that she’s some sort of saviour who can heal you?_

Before Scott can stop himself, his fist is flying through the drywall of his closet, pieces falling to the ground like fairy dust.

It takes a few moments for it to register in his mind what just happened.

He slowly pulls his hand from the hole he’s created and rests his forehead against the wall.

“Fuck.”

 

  
Scott is jittery the entire drive to the Chinese take-out place, and then the drive to Jordan’s place.

He’s nervous that the smallest thing will set him off tonight; he’s already extremely on-edge, suddenly hyper aware of every single thing happening around him.

_You’re so selfish, you know that?_

He wonders if he should have just told Jordan that he wasn’t feeling too well and they could grab food a different time, but he thinks it might be good for him to see her.

_Self-ish._

She grounds him.

_Self-ish._

She has the power to make him forget about life for a while, to forget the battle playing out within the perimeter of his mind.

_Self-ish._

Scott presses down hard on the wounds across the back of his hand until he yells in pain and the sing-song voice in his head retreats.

As soon as Scott enters the elevator and presses the button for the third floor, he closes his eyes, taking deep breaths like WebMD told him to.

He hasn’t been this nervous approaching her door since the first time she invited him over to her apartment.

_Just hold it together, just hold it together. Smile. Everything is fine._

Seconds after he knocks, Jordan flings the door open, a huge smile on her face.

“He—you okay?” The grin immediately falls as she sees Scott.

Maybe his fake smile wasn’t as convincing as he thought.

“Yeah!” He says a little too loudly, with too much artificial joy injected into the letters.

Jordan looks incredibly confused.

And he feels like an idiot.

“Yeah,” he tries again, more quietly this time. “I’m good. I just, uh, I don’t know, zoned out I guess.”

“Well, I didn’t think it took me that long to get to the door.” Jordan laughs, and Scott relaxes. “Come on in.”

He slips off his shoes and they begin to walk side-by-side towards her kitchen.

“Oh, and just a suggestion,” Jordan starts as she brings a finger to her chin for a moment in a pensive manner before pointing it at him. “Maybe try not to look so stressed when you zone out next time. I almost went into cardiac arrest seeing you like that. I thought something bad happened.”

Scott tries to muster the most genuine laugh he possibly can, but he feels it sounded too forced. “Well what good would that have been if I _was_ stressed and something bad _did_ happen, but you decided to go into cardiac arrest because you were stressed that I was stressed?”

“Either I’m incredibly stupid or it’s way too late because that made absolutely no sense to me.”

But Scott laughs for real this time, a booming belly laugh that shakes each of his bones.

And then Jordan is smiling up at him, her grin so wide and bright that it makes her eyes squint.

Suddenly, all of the negative thoughts in his head surrender to him.

Nothing else matters but Jordan.

Suddenly, everything is better.

“Okay,” she claps, “Let’s just open up the food. I’m starving.”

“At least you didn’t have to smell it the entire way here. It was torture. And now my car is going to smell like Chinese take-out for the next three days.”

“Okay, you win.”

As Scott lifts the white plastic bag onto the counter, he realizes that his bruised and bloodied hand is on full display.

And he knows Jordan is going to ask questions.

That’s just the way she is; she’s so caring and always wants the best for him. He loves that, having someone in his life who truly cares for him.

But not this time.

“Holy shit, what happened to your hand?” Jordan gasps and reaches out, running her fingertips gently over his knuckles and the back of his hand.

_There it is._

Scott wants nothing more than to retreat into his shell and hideaway.

“Oh, I…” Scott racks his brain for a good excuse. “I hit my hand really hard off of...the corner of that wall at the entrance to my apartment when I was leaving. You know, the one that sticks out too far?”

“Ugh, yes. What a weird design choice.” Jordan clicks her tongue disapprovingly as she continues to inspect his hand. “You must have hit it really hard. What were you even doing?”

Scott lets out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. “Let’s just say I turned around a little too fast.”

He’s better at this fib thing than he thought.

She snorts, but catches herself and tries to remain serious.

“Do you want ice for it? It’s still a little swollen.”

“Nah, I’ll be fine.”

“Okay.”

Scott and Jordan begin to unpack the little boxes of food, opening up each one to examine the contents and figure out what belongs to who as they make small talk about their day so far.

Once everything is sorted, they sit down, tap their chopsticks together as though they were flutes of champagne, and dig in.

But Scott really doesn’t feel all that hungry.

He pokes around at his fried rice, trying to count how many carrot pieces he can find in the box, before he gives up and decides on observing Jordan instead.

For the first few minutes, he can tell she’s concentrating on eating gracefully, putting the smallest quantity of food in her mouth and chewing it for way too long before taking another bite.

Slowly, the amount of food she picks up gets larger, and the time between each bite gets shorter. Her cheeks puff out from the contents stored inside, and Scott thinks she looks a bit like a chipmunk.

He thinks it’s hilarious.

But also extremely adorable.

The oversized, forest green hoodie she’s wearing somehow makes her jade eyes seem even more vivid than usual. He loves how comfy she looks, and also loves how it means she’s comfortable enough around him to not feel like she has to try.

Short pieces of hair are beginning to fall out of the messy bun that sits on top of her head, yet they manage to land in ways that perfectly frame her face like a golden halo.

He notices that she isn’t wearing any makeup, which isn’t a first, but still a rarity. He wishes she knew how beautiful she was without makeup, but he also doesn’t want to sound as though he’s telling her not to wear it, because that’s a dick move.

After all, if it makes her happy, it makes him happy.

But he loves when she’s fresh faced because then he can see the constellations of freckles mapped out across her skin.

She often complains about her freckles, saying they’re too dark and too abundant. She says she wishes they were lighter, or less plentiful, or even non-existent.

But he loves every single one.

He wishes he could reach out and trace delicate connections between them all.

“What?” Jordan suddenly asks, snapping him back to the present. The question muffled by the insane amount of chow mein she just shoved in her mouth.

Even with noodles hanging from her lips and the bit of sauce on her cheek, she’s still so damn beautiful.

Is it too soon to say that he might actually love her?

_You’ve literally only known her for a month. How can you trust her so quickly? You only know what she wants you to know._

Scott quickly shakes his head to escape his thoughts before he gets roped back into the ring. “Nothing.”

“Nothing my ass. You were just looking at me like my head was missing.”

“Don’t worry, it’s still there.”

Jordan reaches across the table and pokes his arm with a chopstick. “Stop! No more joking. Are you sure you’re good? You’ve been dead silent since we sat down, and I haven’t seen you eat anything at all. Look, I’m pretty much done.”

She tilts her boxes towards Scott to prove her point.

“I’ve just been...distracted?” It comes out like more of a question than Scott was hoping for, but at least it wasn’t really a lie.

“Listen,” Jordans voice softens, and she places her chopsticks down on the table. “I don’t want to push you, but you’re my boyf—” She immediately cuts herself off, her entire body going completely rigid as her face reddens.

Scott’s pretty sure if he _were_ eating, he would have just choked on his food.

“You’re…” she searches for the answer in the popcorn ceiling above her as she nervously plays with her silver ring. “I...I know we’ve only known each other for, like, four weeks, but I know you well enough to tell when something’s off. You can trust me, you know.”

_No, you can’t. Don’t trust her._

_Why not?_

_There’s something off._

_Whatever._

“Yeah, of course. I just...don’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh. Okay.” Jordan nods, and returns her attention to the last bit of rice she has left.

The silence that surrounds them is different from the one before. It carries a peculiar weight to it, one that he’s never felt around Jordan.

He hates it.

He has to do something.

“So,” Scott clears his throat and claps his hands together in attempt to transform the current heavy mood into a lighter one. “What’s on the itinerary for tonight?”

“Well, first, if you’re not gonna eat your chicken balls, I would like them.” Jordan raises her eyebrow and nods towards his small box of the chicken before taking a drink of her water.

Scott lets out an exaggerated sign. “I mean, I _guess_ you can have them, but only because I love you.”

It isn’t until the words leave his mouth that Scott realized what he just said.

Jordan coughs and spits her water back into her glass. Her eyes are so wide, they look like they might fall out of her skull. “What?”

 _You’re an_ idiot _! But this is also hilarious, look how much of a fool you’ve just made of yourself._

“I, uh—”

“You love me?” Her face softens, eyebrows raised in wonder.

“No, no, I didn’t mean—”

“I think I love you too,” she whispers, her face unmoving.

“What?”

“I know, we’re not—anything—but yeah,” she starts, looking everywhere but at the man sitting in front of her. “I thought it was too soon to feel that way, but I guess not. That’s kind of a relief.”

Scott can’t help but laugh. “Glad to know we’re both on the same page at least.”

She looks down as though she was thinking carefully about what she wants to say next. She hesitates before speaking. “When did you first know?”

He shrugs. “About 15 minutes ago when you shoved so much chow mein in your mouth you couldn’t even close it to chew it all.”

Jordan covers her face. “Oh my god.”

Scott reaches out, gently prying her hands from her face and holding them in his. “I’m completely serious.”

“No way. You’re lying.”

“I’m not, I swear. I just thought, ‘Wow, the most beautiful woman in the entire world is literally sitting across from he right now, still beautiful even with soy sauce on her cheeks.’”

Jordan smiles down at the empty boxes in front of her and shakes her head, colour rising to her cheeks.

“Your turn.” Scott smiles at her.

She signs. “I don’t know, I was just thinking about you last week while doing the dishes or something? Mine’s boring.”

“Washing dirty dishes made you realize you love me? Interesting. A lot to unpack there. We’ll have to analyze that a little further at a later time.”

She giggles. “No, no. I don’t know, it was just, like, a random ‘a-ha’ moment.”

Jordan looks up from the table to meet Scott’s eyes.

They don’t know how long they stay like that, hand-in-hand across the sea of grease-stained Chinese food boxes, hazel eyes examining green ones.

He tries to ignore the sliver of uneasiness in the back of his mind that finds it strange that he can’t seem to read her at all.

Scott is usually able to read people so easily, even people he doesn’t have a strong bond with.

It should be so easy for him to figure her out.

But it’s as though there’s a wall around her soul, unallowing of anyone.

The more Scott tries to push the thought away, the more prominent it becomes.

He knows he has to say something and get a conversation going before the doubt consumes him.

“So what are we?” they end up saying at the same time, breaking the silence.

It sends them into a fit of laughter.

“Okay, okay,” Jordan says between giggles. “I think it’s safe to say we’ve entered relationship territory.”

“What kind of relationship? Like, platonic? Or, more like siblings? I wasn’t really sure which label to put on it.”

Jordan shakes her head, a smile creeping on her face. “You really are the worst.”

“And I wear that title proudly.”

Jordan reaches out to grab her glass, bringing it to her mouth before quickly slamming it down on the table, making Scott jump.

“Woah, what was that for?”

She tries not to laugh as she speaks. “I forgot I spit back into there. There’s definitely some chicken ball floating around.”

“That’s gross.”

“You love me when I have noodles hanging from my mouth but not when there’s chicken ball swimming in my glass?”

“Ding, ding, ding. There’s some things that just can’t be made beautiful, you know?”

“Alright, sorry, my bad.” Jordan holds her hands up.

“So, returning to your request for me to be your official significant other, I must say I happily accept.”

“Why are you saying it like that? What is this, the thirties?”

“Perhaps, madam.”

“Oh, speaking of the thirties,” Jordan says, her face lighting up as she sits a little straighter, “Hurry up and finish your food. There’s this really cool World War II documentary on at 8:30 that I’ve been wanting to see. We _have_ to watch it.”

Scott laughs. “You’re literally an 80-year-old man.”

“Hey!” Jordan swats his arm.

“Just saying, maybe that wasn’t an insult. Maybe I find 80-year-old men attractive.”

Jordan scrunches her face in disgust. “Ew.”

“You know what, as soon as that left my mouth, I realized it was pretty bad.”

“It’s a good thing you’re hot, because you aren’t much else.”

Scott holds his hand on his heart in mock hurt. “You’re telling me of all my amazing, incredible, and unique qualities, the one that made you love me were my _looks_?

“Yep, exactly.”

“Can’t we watch something else? There’s no way you _actually_ want to watch a war doc. I don’t believe you. You don’t seem like the type.”

“Oh, really? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s supposed to mean that I thought you would rather watch a Disney movie or something. What kind of a date is this? I want a refund.”

Jordan’s loud laughter fills the space around them, and Scott feels his heart triple in size.

“Can we just watch the beginning at least? Then, if you absolutely hate it, we can watch something else. Okay?”

“Fine.”

Jordan laces her fingers with Scott’s and attempts to tug him towards the living room. “Now come on or we’re going to miss the start.”

Scott glances at the clock before allowing himself to be brought to his feet. “It doesn’t start for another 20 minutes.”

“I have ides of how we can pass the time.” Jordan lifts an eyebrow seductively.

He mirrors her expression. “Oh, really?”

“Mmmhm.” She smirks as she pulls him closer to her.

“I hope it includes Jenga. That’s my favourite game. It’s so fun, such a classic, so—”

Jordan stands on her toes, reaching up to kiss Scott. It’s gentle, their lips softly brushing each other as though they are as fragile as fine china and will break under too much force. Scott tilts her chin up with his hand, and she places both of her hands on his chest.

It’s like a scene from a romantic movie.

He wishes he could kiss her forever.

Then suddenly, her hands are tangling themselves in his dark hair, pulling at the roots, and he’s squeezing her hips so tightly, earning him low moans and gasps in response. Their kisses become more sloppy and needy and intense; they can’t quite get enough of the other no matter how hard they try. Their hands are moving everywhere, never staying in one place for long as they map out each curve and dip of each others’ bodies.

He doesn’t want it to stop.

They’re not fighting for dominance; they’re equals in this game, working to balance each other out. Each of them knows when to give more, or when to retreat, when to speed things up or slow things down, when to hold on tighter or loosen their grip.

Their dynamic is unlike any he’s ever experienced.

He doesn’t want to let it slip away.

“Ah, so _that’s_ what you have in mind,” Scott says breathlessly when he eventually pulls away and rests his forehead against hers. “Not as fun as Jenga, but still acceptable.”

Jordan shakes her head. “Why are you like this?”

Scott pretends to consider the question for a moment. “Good question.”

Jordan squeals as Scott lifts her up, one hand resting on her back and the other under her thigh supporting her as she wraps her legs around his torso. He kisses her again as he walks over to the couch, lying her down on it without breaking contact as he supports himself above her.

“Okay,” she breaks away from after a few moments him and he frowns, reaching down to kiss her again, but she dodges it and laughs. “Stop that! We actually have to stop or we’re going to miss the movie.”

“Very true.”

Scott holds onto Jordan and flips them over, so she’s on top instead. “I didn’t want to crush you.”

“Wow, what a gentleman.”

“Thanks, I’m trying my best.”

She giggles, bringing her head down to rest on his chest.

Scott shifts until his head sits comfortably on the armrest. He then brings his arm to wrap around Jordan, securing her to him.

“I just realized the TV isn’t even on.”

“Where’s the remote?”

Jordan looks around before closing her eyes and loudly groaning. “It’s in the kitchen.”

“We _just_ got comfortable, and you’re telling me we have to get up now?”

“It’s fine, I’ll get it.”

Jordan drags herself into the other room. Scott hears a bit of rummaging around before she shuffles back over to the couch, turns the TV onto the correct channel, and flops back on top of his chest as they reassume the position they were in before.

“This better be good,” Scott teases as the opening credits appear on the screen.

“It’s gonna be _so_ good.”

 

  
Jordan fell asleep at some point during the first half hour of the documentary.

Ironically enough, Scott found it pretty interesting.

He wonders if she’ll be mad when she realizes she fell asleep and he didn’t even wake her up.

But he didn’t want to; she looks so peaceful when she sleeps.

Scott has seen her asleep so many times before, but this time felt so much different.

He gently draws circles on her back, losing track of how many times his fingers have returned to the start.

Jordan stirs on top of him, and he’s surprised when both of her hands come up to his chest, her head turning to allow for her chin to rest on them.

“Hi,” she slurs, sleep etched into her face.

“Hi,” he responds, his hand coming up to brush way strands of golden locks that have fallen from her bun and onto her face.

She leans down to kiss him. And they kiss slowly, gently, carefully, as if they had all the time in the world.

“Are you comfortable here? Would you rather sleep on the bed?” Jordan says when she pulls away minutes later.

“It doesn’t matter to me.”

“Yes it does. I know the couch is uncomfortable. Let’s go.”

Jordan begins to get up, but in a quick, fluid motion, Scott has her scooped up into his arms as he stands up.

She lazily puts her arms around Scott’s neck, burrowing her face into his chest.

He kisses the top of her head before lying her down carefully on the right side of her bed, pulling the covers up to her chin.

“Goodnight, Scott,” she mumbles.

“Goodnight, Jordan.”

She shifts until she’s lying on her side, facing the place where Scott will lay, before going still, her steady breathing indicating her entrance into sleep.

Scott climbs into bed next to Jordan, twisting about carefully as to not wake her.

He watches her sleep for a while, the way her eyelids flutter every so often, the way her mouth is open just a little, her tongue sticking out ever so slightly between her teeth.

He reaches out and gently traces lines between the freckles on her cheeks with his thumb, just as he had wanted to do earlier.

Though still asleep, Jordan smiles faintly, as though she knew what he was doing.

It makes his heart swell, and it’s in this moment he knows that he wants to fall asleep and wake up beside her every day for the rest of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone still reading this story: thank you. Thank you for waiting so long for updates, thank you for not quitting, thank you for all the love you've given me. With a lot less going on right now, I feel like we'll reach the end soon.


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